


The Florentine Letters

by forreveries



Series: The Letters [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1930s, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blood and Violence, Fluff, Graphic Description, Historical, Long, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sharing a Bed, Strangers to Lovers, Summer, Summer Vacation, Treasure Hunting, University, treasurehunter!louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-07-16 11:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 118,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16085006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forreveries/pseuds/forreveries
Summary: Oxford University,June, 1935.The edge of summer has just begun to dawn over the university campus, exams are almost over and the dust is just beginning to settle over the desks.Harry Styles, in the last years of his PHD study of The Renaissance, has managed to maintain a safe existence within the walls of his books and classes and late night romances. He's made a place that's safe from the expectations of high brow society and the cold stare of his father.That is, until an all too sharp, all too witty, and all too handsome man walks into his life.Louis, the cocky man with the smile, brings with him a strange object - declaring that it's a puzzle piece from the one and only Leonardo Da Vinci. He speaks of age old mysteries, and puzzles that cannot be solved without Harry's help. Immediately, Harry is quite literally swept off his feet, and together they take their chances on the find of a life time - Da Vinci's lost works.But what Louis doesn't mention is the high stakes game of cat and mouse that comes with chasing things that do not belong to you. A game where nothing, and no one, is as they seem.





	1. The Sacrifice (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr post: http://forreveries.tumblr.com/post/178412621466/theflorentineletters01

She creeped along the hallway, a flickering of light only visible through the crack under the front door. Wintery air blew through it, sending shivers up her spine above the snowy footprints followed her every step.

Her footsteps were light, careful not to disturb the dark honey stairs as she climbed them, moving further into the darkness. She didn’t want wake any sleeping occupants, cause alarm. She stuck to the outside edges of each stair, but on the very last one a sharp groan called out, a warning to run and hide, save yourself before it’s too late.

But no one did, no one woke to the sound. The humming of wind outside had lulled everyone on the street into a fitful sleep.

She made her way along the last two metres before she was met with the first door on the right.

Without knocking, she reached a gloved hand out and turned the knob. It shifted with a meek wobble and gave in.

A small fire still glowed, its embers painting the walls a rich gold. In the middle of the room sat a bed, covered in plush quilts. Each one was layered on top of the other, swaddling a sleeping frame. With each even breath, the quilts would rise and fall.

Too easy.

She didn’t even bother closing the door. Instead she walked calmly to the bed. As she came up to it, a kind woman’s face came into view. Swallowed by the sheets. Blissfully unaware.

She took the moment to reach out a hand and shift some dark hairs out of her face just so she could see how peaceful she looked as she slept. So pretty. The hairs were thin but glossy, vaguely sleep wet. The woman’s face was warm and this made her smile.

She stayed like that for a short moment. Drinking in the dreams of this sleeping woman.

In a hushed voice, though loud enough to disturb her slumber, she said, “Sweet dreams, pet.”

And then in one swift motion, she reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out a knife and slit her throat.


	2. The Favour.

Thursday

June 13th, 1935.

Oxford University.

 

Like all terrible things do, it started with a favour.

 

Leaning over his desk, shallow light glowing from the nearby green lamp, Harry read over his greying copy of Michel De Montaigne’s Essais. The book was so large and dense that the pages were beginning to tear away from its inside, and the spine was so creased it never quite closed anymore. It sat before him, the words becoming more and more distant as his eyes became more and more tired. His tea had gone cold, and bed was calling for him.

He could hear the quiet tap of late night footsteps in the hallway and feel the cool of the night beginning to creep in through the open window and lick at his nose. There had been no wind all evening, and his curtains only seemed to shift with the flicker of a street lamp outside. 

A quiet rap came through his dormitory door, three sparse taps. Fletcher.

Harry sat back in his chair, his spine clicking back into place, and rubbed his eyes. They’d gone so dry it hurt to rub at them. He looked to the clock perched over on his bedside table, 12.19AM. Far too late for anyone to be knocking on any doors. 

Harry contemplated leaving the door, pretending he was asleep. But his lamp was on, light surely leaking under the oak door. Fletcher was a kook, but Harry had never seen him after 8pm in all the years he’d known him, so it must be important. Opening the door, Harry was met with a crinkled, wide awake smile.

“Master Harry, how is your evening going?” Fletcher grinned, a small wink in his eye. He peeked past harry at the dishevelled desk. “Still reading I see. Do you ever sleep?”

Harry let out a small chuckle, “Not for the last six years, at least.”

“Well, what are you going to do when you finish this doctorate and get out of this blasted place, young Harry?” Fletcher was Harry’s supervisor, his superior, but he’d decided to be on first name basis with Harry since they’d first met and took such delight to using it unnecessarily. His lips happily curled around the letters every time he said them.

Fletcher patted Harry’s shoulder, letting himself into the room and made his way to the desk under the window. He sat down, hooked a leg over the other, and took out a cigarette. 

“You really should make that if you’re not going to use it.” Fletcher chuckled, waving absently at Harry’s unkempt bed, the papers strewn across it. 

Harry smiled, “One day, I’ll think about it.”

Harry stayed where he was, leaning on the wall by the doorframe, exhaustion creeping up his legs. He almost shut the door, just not quite. A hopeful reminder to Fletcher that it was most definitely past visiting hours.

Giving a small, apologetic smile, Harry asked “What can I do for you tonight, Fletcher?” It used to feel so strange calling this ageing man by his given name, but Fletcher always insisted, and now he was so used to it that it felt more normal than calling his own father, ‘Father’.

Fletcher lit a match and ignited his cigarette. He shook out the flame and tossed the spent match into Harry’s tea cup. “Ah yes, I was just getting there.”

Harry waited expectantly, rubbing under his left eye.

“You know my great aunt Beatrice?”

Harry didn’t, but he nodded along. Too late for one of Fletcher’s explanations. History professors had the tendency to over-explain anything that had happened ever.

“Yes, well, she’s become quite sick. Tuberculosis. It’s rather unfortunately really.” 

He had seemed too much in his usual high spirits to be unloading something like this. But he carried on in his regular Fletcher way.

“She’s getting old, quite old now. It’s really not a surprise. You know how these things are. Next thing you know, we’ll all be in the ground...”

Fletcher paused, and Harry continued nodding along, confused. Wondering how someone could talk about death so flippantly. Wondering if this was even happening at all, or if he’d actually become so tired he’d fallen asleep at his desk an hour ago. 

Fletcher took a long drag from his cigarette, clearly considering something. He mulled over the worn pages of Harry’s books, mindlessly turning them between his fingers, before quickly coming back to Earth.

“Ah, no, I won’t bore you with the details, Harry. I’ve never known her well, but one should be with their family at a time like this.” 

Fletcher quickly pressed the rest of his cigarette into the tea cup, stood up and started moving back towards Harry, “Could you be the best - my train leaves in the morning -  and take my examination tomorrow? The papers are on my desk, you still have my key, yes?”

Harry nodded yet again for both questions. He taught his own small class of third years and had already finished with their exams that morning. He’d started marking the first of their papers that afternoon, but as usual he was more interested in his own studies and had spent the evening reading, lost in the world of skepticism and luscious art.

“Perfect, you shan’t need do anything, just what you’ve done for the other exams.” Another pat on the back.

And he was gone. Not a chance for questions.

 

Harry clicked the door shut and leant against it, wondering what in the hell had just happened. Questions started to swirl in his head, but it was after midnight and even by Harry’s standards this was later than usual. He pushed the papers from his bed, plucking one out of the mess.

Scrawling a quick note to himself,  _ supervise exam, time? _ , Harry slumped into bed and the night swirled in on itself, sleep a blink away.


	3. The Telescope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr: forreveries.tumblr.com

Friday 

June 14th, 1935.

Oxford University.

 

Dust glimmered in the sun, swimming around the glow of the window. The room was a quiet haze as the late afternoon shone over the examination papers, pencils scratching fervently. You could hear quiet shouts of other students outside, laying in the sun and laughing the stress of exams away. Harry was sat at the front of the room at Fletcher’s desk, hand on his chin, writing notes to look like he was busy and impressive. Actually drawing a mess of words, English and Italian, and girlish doodles as he waited for the last hour to tick by.

_ Rose Rosse. Gary Cooper. Dinner? Chicken. Squisito.  _ _ Luce del sole _ .

He could feel the hours of working on his thesis in the hot drool of summer days, the freedom to go out to make a friend for the night at one of the local watering holes. The university would be quiet and he could concentrate. Harry liked being around people, being around his students, but a quiet summer of independence and short romances had become the only thing on his mind. He’d thought he was in the clear to stay up later and wake up later already, until Fletcher’s incident the night before. For now he was confined to one last favour, but at least he could enjoy the radiance of the summer shining into the room.

Harry’s eyes followed one speck of dust as it floated from the window, across the room, past the sharp reflection of a Jonathan's metal pencil case. It swam in and out of the shadows of the ash tree outside, and harry felt himself drift towards the thought of kisses at dusk, warm bike rides, and books under the shade of the same tree outside. The speck of dust drifted further still, towards the door and dipped into the final edge of sunlight, disappearing into the shadow of the room’s corner and Harry's eyes refocused back to the world around him.

He checked the clock above the blackboard behind him, seven minutes left. Somehow the exam had washed past him like an ocean wave. His daydreams had kept him company enough and soon the students were all walking out the door. 

The entire day had felt lethargic, and Harry took his time shuffling everyone’s essays into a neat stack. He was ready to slowly make his way back to Fletcher’s office to leave them on his desk. Walking out the door, he thought of all the things that summer meant and that finally it was here. He turned and put one of his keys into the door behind him. It clicked shut, and he felt someone behind him. A voice.

“Hi.”

Harry’s neck snapped around and he was greeted with a man. Tanned and experienced looking. A little older than he. Hair the colour of earth after a spring shower. He was smiling, the kind of smile that said  _ I’ve seen the entire world and nothing scares me _ . 

“Uh, hi.” Harry managed, offering a smile that tried to say the same, but didn’t get all the way there. He seemed to take it, though. 

“Are you Harry Styles, by chance?” He said, his voice unusual and wispy. A heavy Northern accent cuddled his words.

“That is I, yes. Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” He motioned outwards with his hand, “Shall we walk? You look like you’re headed somewhere.”

Harry followed suit, falling into step with the man.

“I’ve been told you’re the best person to talk to on campus today, Mr. Campbell is out?”

“Yes, an illness in his family overnight.”

“Oh?” The man quipped, “That’s never a good thing.”

Harry hummed back to him in agreement.

“And you’re a PHD student?”

“Yes, second year in.” Harry was curious who this man had talked to.

“What’s your focus?”

“I have a wide interest in the Renaissance,” Harry flipped his hand not holding the exam papers expressively, “Though, I am writing about the effects of Humanism the High Renaissance period.”

Harry expected that to bring up more questions, that he’d wonder what that mean’t.  _ Do tell me more _ , everyone else would say. But the man just nodded. “And you’re finding it well?”

Harry contemplated his answer, his feelings towards his study complex, “It’s a lot, though I wouldn’t trade it for anything else. I guess there’s a reason I’m still here.”

The man smiled at that, mostly to himself. “I suppose there’s a reason you have a good reputation about you then, too.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to reply to that. He settled on a shy smile back -  _ you said it, not me.  _

“The thing is, though, I’ve come into ownership of a… I’m not quite sure what it is.. A lock? No… A key perhaps. ”

Harry’s ears perked up at this, looking over at the man’s face. They both looked as thoughtful as the other.

“But apparently - and this is where I’m hoping you can help me - it’s connected to a certain Leonardo Da Vinci.” His voice quipped up into a question mark, his tone had a natural cheek to it. 

Harry couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, disbelieving that someone could just stumble upon something like this. He asked, “Are you sure?”

The man smirked at this, “Quite.”

The two men walked around a corner and Fletcher’s office came into sight, three doors down on the left. There was a pensive quiet between them for a moment before Harry piped up, “If you don’t mind me asking, why come here to ask me?” 

They got to the door, and Harry tucked the papers under his arm to unlock the door, “Surely there’s someone more qualified? Maybe you should wait for when Fle- Mr. Campbell returns?”

“I’ll be honest, Mr. Styles-” Another smile- “Anyone else would probably charge a fair bit more for their services.” A wink.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head to himself, “Who said I don’t charge?” It came out too quickly, like he’d said too much.

“Are you?”

“Well,” They both entered the room, and Harry closed the door behind them, “We’re here now, and I’m curious, so I suppose not.”

Harry walked around behind the desk as the man sat in one of the leather chairs. He seemed to lounge in it. Harry put the papers down and sat down, scooting Fletcher’s chair up to the desk so he could rest on his elbows. 

“So, let’s have it then,” Harry said.

  
  


The first thing Harry saw, as this unusual man opened his satchel, was a sheet of doubled over burlap wrapped around something. Something small, no larger than his hand. Though Harry’s tall, willowy, height meant that his hands were perhaps larger than usual. Nonetheless.

The man set it down on the desk with a small thud. As he began to undress the fabric, he started to explain how he’d gotten it, as though that would make this moment at all believable. 

“I was given it by a gentleman. He wants to know what’s in it, if it was actually Da Vinci’s. I find things you see, art, antiquities, that sort of thing. Though sometimes I get asked to find someone’s missing dog. The rich pay out their noses for all sorts of tosh.” 

The man winked, but Harry felt himself shuffle unconsciously. Only the rich go to university. 

“It’s usually easy work, but… This has proved more difficult than I’ve encountered,” He ended with a sigh, resigned to unravelling the last of the burlap away.

From it came what looked like a telescope. 

Harry picked it up and turned it over between delicate fingers. The telescope was hexagonal and made of ivory, encased with brass floral patterns. Each side of it, amongst the flowers, was a different image cast in the same brass. They were tiny, perhaps not noticeable to the uncaring eye, like the leaves were growing over them to protect them. As Harry turned it, he took note of each of the tiny carvings. A skull, a compass, a man, a lion, a snake and a priest. Where the lens should have had glass, more brass. On it was an Italian inscription.  

  
  


**_‘Stavo cercando le stelle nei tuoi occhi e ho scoperto che stavo cercando nella direzione sbagliata.’_ **

  
  


As Harry read it, he translated aloud, “I was looking for the stars in your eyes and I found that I was looking in the wrong direction.”

Looking along the six sides of telescope from the lens to the eyepiece, the flowers fell away to bare ivory. On the side depicting the man there were six letters inset, each on its own dial like they were a part of a combination lock, though too smooth and too small to turn themselves. They must have a switch or something somewhere. 

Harry looked for something to turn them with, turning the telescope to the side where the eyepiece connected with the main body. Six tiny and perfectly round knobs sat along six rings, each inside the next. Around the outermost ring, the world STELLE repeated itself in cursive script.

Unsure if he should even touch the handles, the thing seemed so delicate and quite possibly worth more than his life, Harry looked up to the man - his eyes seeking permission.

“Go on, they do turn. I’ve done it myself too many times, I just can’t figure out what the combination is.”

The man watched on intently as Harry fiddled with the tiny handles. They were so small he had to move them with just a fingernail hooked over each one. They moved smoothly but so heavily, like they didn’t want to be disturbed. Harry only got the first letter from J to P before turning the object back to its side.

Harry thought for a moment, searching for an answer for the lock. Wondering where to even begin.

“Have you tried ‘Stelle’? Both the front and back mention it.”

The man nodded.

He kept looking over each inch of the telescope, asking aloud, “You’ve tried the names of these little carvings? It’s not PRIEST for example?”

The man nodded again.

“What of a letter from each?” Harry took note of the first letter of each icon, “ S C M L…”

“I’ve tried it all.” The man chuckled, amused as Harry took all the same guesses he had.

Harry put the telescope down, sitting his head on his hand. He thought for a short moment, searching for something to jump out of his brain. “So… What can I do that you haven’t already?”

The man leant forward, putting his elbows on the desk. 

“I figured someone like you would know enough about Da Vinci to think of something meaningful to him. Something no one else would guess,” His voice was low, expectant.

Harry mindlessly stroked the tiny lion that stared up at them, “But why do you think it was even his?”

“Because of two things-” the man took the telescope from under Harry’s hand- “it’s been so closely guarded that it must be important, and-“ he turned the telescope so the icon of the man was facing upwards- “this side says F. MELZI.”

“Melzi?” Harry’s entire body shifted upwards with this news, “As in Francesco Melzi? Leonardo’s studio boy?”

“That’s what I’ve been told,” The man grinned, passing the piece to Harry’s outstretched hands.

Harry latched onto the telescope and looked for the words. There, across the front of the book that the little carved man was holding, were six tiny letters etched into the brass. So tiny he had to blink a few times to grasp them. Harry couldn’t help but let out an “Oh my..” under his breath. This telescope had Francesco Melzi’s name on it, the same Melzi that was in such close company with Da Vinci that it was he who had been given all of his notes and drawings to make the Codex Urbinas that was so famous now. The same Francesco Melzi who was so close with Da Vinci that the entire nature of their relationship had been shrouded in suspicion going on four hundred years.

Harry pondered for a long while, resting his head on praying hands. He needed to think of something that surely hadn’t been thought of before. Da Vinci was a secretive man, he’d worked in illegal sciences behind the church’s back, and was a man of great invention. No doubt that if this was his work, only a certain kind of person was going to get in. It felt like the answer had to be staring at him in the face, he just didn’t have the eyes to see it yet. 

Harry catalogued everything he could see on the telescope. The carvings, the floral patterns, and the text. There were six letters in the name F. MELZI, as well as six letters in the world STELLE, and another six making up the letters in what he could only describe as a cipher. 

And it hit him.

“This could be a code,” Harry thought aloud excitedly, “Could it be a Vigenère cipher?”

The man looked at him, squinted eyes curious and sceptical, “What’s that?”

“I guess.. In layman’s terms, It’s a common way to encrypt a secret code, it’s been around for years so it’s worth a shot. Maybe. I think.” Harry replied, his voice sprinkling a dash of insecurity, never sure if he explained things well enough. Cautious to over-explain like Fletcher.

He looked closer at the name, there was no full stop between the F and the MELZI. Like they weren’t initials, but one complete word.

“Maybe these aren't just his initials. Look,” Harry pointed to the lack of punctuation, his voice gaining a pinch of excitement, “It’s written like its just a word. Six letters next to each other. Maybe FMELZI is just the cipher text.” 

Harry rotated the telescope in his hand to show the script around the rings of tiny handles. “Maybe STELLE is the key. It fits perfectly.”

The man quipped back, a nervous air about both of them, “What if there’s just no dot. The writing’s tiny, maybe it just didn’t fit.” 

Somehow they’d started leaning in closer and closer.

Harry looked up at him and they held an intense eye contact between them. There was a glint of dare in both their eyes, two sides of the same coin. One wanting to have figured it out, and one not wanting it to just have been that easy, but both wanting to be right. A moment passed before the man grinned, slicing through the sharp atmosphere, “But why not, it’s worth a shot right?”

Harry grinned back before jumping up and grabbing some paper from one of Fletcher’s many drawers.

“What are you doing?” The man asked as Harry rummaged in the desk drawer for a pencil that had lead still in it. He started scribbling a chart, 26 letters by 26 letters. From afar it would look like Harry was writing the alphabet 26 times one under the other, but up close, each row would be shifted one letter to the left. The first alphabet would start on A and end on Z, the second would start with B and end with A, and so on, so that the last row would start with Z and end with Y.

“This is how we work out a Vigenère cipher.” Harry finally replied, finally writing FMELZI and STELLE at the top of the page. 

“And how do you know how to do this?” The man asked.

Harry smiled to him as he started circling letters on his chart, “I just like to learn about things.” He looked down at the paper, “I guess.” 

The man smirked as Harry continued, “What you do is, go down the first column until you find the first letter of the key word. In this case, S. Then go along to the right until you find the first letter of the cipher text, F.” He pointed at his circled F. “Now, if you look along the top row, we look for the letter that’s in the same column as the F. Here, it’s the letter N.”

The man looked at him with dead eyes. Harry just waved his hand, “I know, it’s hard to explain but just look. Trust me.”

Harry continued circling letters. From T to M, making H, and so on. Soon he had six letters scrawled out along the top of the page. NHAAMW.

The man stared at the paper, “That doesn’t spell anything.”

Harry sighed, “No, but- “ he shifted his weight a little- “usually the cipher text is the bit that looks like gibberish, this one’s the other way around.”

“Like the inscription?” The man had picked up the telescope, turning it to show the italian on the front. “Looking in the wrong direction?”

Harry could help himself but look impressed, “Let’s hope.”

The man let Harry take the honours, turning the tiny dials until the letters matched his paper copy. The dials turned so slowly, but surely. They waited on baited breaths until finally the last letter ticked over from V to W.

Harry wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but he expected something.

The telescope just sat there, staring up at the both of them leering at it.

There was no audible click, no poof of smoke, no magical happening. Nothing like the stories told to a child, about all the treasures of the world found by mysterious men Harry had admired so much when he was barely tall enough to reach an apple on the bench.

The silence between the two men seemed to grow heavy. Harry felt his face burn. 

Though the man didn’t seem surprised. “I should be used to failing this by now,” He leaned back into his chair, like a cat, “Somehow it’s still like the first time.”

He offered Harry a sympathetic smile.

But this  _ was _ Harry’s first time, and the thought of figuring out something of Da Vinci’s mind was so lucrative. It felt so important that Harry could say that it was he, the youngest child and softest of the lot, that had figured it out. He wanted to tell his father and have him smile, pat him on the shoulder, say anything.

He bit his lip, forehead scrunching. “Surely we must be close.”

“Maybe,” The man replied. He quirked an eyebrow, wondering, “I can’t read Italian well, and obviously you can, maybe there’s a clue there I’m just not getting.”

Harry hummed back with a sense of doubt, he didn’t feel that there was anything lost in translation. He swirled the words around in his mind, looking for any clue.  _ I was looking for the stars in your eyes and I found that I was looking in the wrong direction _ .

He kept getting stuck on the ‘wrong direction’, like it was important and he knew why but just he didn’t know how to get there. There was a door in his brain that he didn’t have the key for.

The man interrupted Harry’s thoughts, clearing his throat, “Tell me about Da Vinci, how would he think?”

Harry considered his words, slow to begin with but picking up speed as he got lost in his world, “Well.. From what I know, he was incredibly curious. He wanted to learn and perfect everything about the world around him. I think he was always looking for answers. The church controlled so much back then and where they gave their answers for life’s questions, Da Vinci and so many others looked towards themselves for their own. But, because the church controlled so much, a lot of his work was done in secret. He would illegally dissect and study cadavers and record his findings.. He even…” And this is where he found his key, his voice peaking with realization, “Wrote backwards to hide his writing.”

A giant grin swept across his face, and he begun moving the dials so excitedly it bordered on careless for such an antiquity. The man sat across from him slowly leant forward as he realised what Harry was doing.

Each letter of the combination swapped places, an N became a W. An H became an M. Soon enough, Harry had flipped the code around so it read from right to left. A backwards code.

As he slid the last letter to N, the telescope clicked. Audibly. All that was missing was a plume of smoke.

Harry gasped aloud, he felt a ghost of a hand on his shoulder, imagining his father again. Then the man across from him actually jumped up from his chair and came around to squeeze his shoulders. For real.

The entire eyepiece popped away from the telescope by a millimetre. Harry carefully pulled it off the rest of the way. In its place was a small brass flap that had previously prevented the glass of the eyepiece looking directly into the contents of the telescope. 

Harry pulled it back and peeked inside.


	4. The Letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr: forreveries.tumblr.com

 

The cavity of the telescope was small, no wider than a coin, and a scroll of old paper filled it entirely. Harry tipped the telescope back and out it fell, quietly tapping against the wood of the desk. The paper was clearly ages old, it had turned an ivory colour and the edges had frayed where they rubbed against the telescope’s chamber. It looked like it might turn to dust between his fingers. 

Harry knew of how to handle old documents, knew that the oils in his fingers would damage the delicate paper, so he looked around for something to peel the paper apart with delicately enough. Though this wasn’t his office and he wasn’t sure where to look. 

He settled on looking through the desk drawers again, but as he opened it, the man across from him leant over and just picked it up. Like it was the morning paper. Like it was a scrap piece of thesis paper, tossed out when the wording wasn’t right.

Harry looked up at him, dumbfounded. He let out a sharp but all too quiet, “Careful!”

The man looked over at him like Harry was the crazy one. 

“I am,” His voice was teasing, but Harry could see his grip change. See how he shifted his hands to only hold the paper so softly between just his thumbs and index fingers.

As the man unravelled the paper, he leant it down on the desk and looked at it, puzzled. The page was the size of a small book page, its edges were crinkled and deformed and the entire  bottom right hand corner had been torn away. The man carefully held down the edges with fine fingers and bit his lip in thought.

Harry looked between the puzzled man and the paper, deciding that he wanted to have a look too. He got up and went around the desk to stand over the man’s shoulder. He was shorter than Harry, but not enough to comfortably look over his shoulder without touching his chin to it. Harry wouldn’t dare risk that with some strange man, nevertheless one so dashing. One of such a small frame, but with more than enough charm to make up for it. 

He settled on standing to the right of the man, resting his hand on the desk and leaning into it. His body a skittish hover around him.

Harry looked down at the paper, curious as to why this candid man hadn’t said anything, hadn’t asked any more questions. Harry had already grown used to being asked again and again of his renaissance knowledge.

Sprawled across the paper were paragraphs of text, not English. Below were two orthographic drawings of a decorative box. The drawing on the left, the outside, the Medici coat of arms splayed across it. The drawing on the right seemed like it might have been the same or similar, but the majority of it had been torn away.

The text carried an air of unfamiliarity. The lettering was cursive, everything linked together, but around the wrong way. Harry instantly recognised that everything was written backwards, unsurprisingly. He said this to the man, and a worn look of amusement was given back, “Why must Da Vinci be so difficult all the time?”

Harry chuckled, “I guess he must be sitting on a lot of secrets.”

The man grinned and looked back at the paper, “Who isn’t though?” 

And Harry began to ponder on this for a moment, thoughtful of what kind of secrets other people had. Affairs, money troubles, illegitimate children. He thought of what skeletons could hide in his own family closet, of all the reasons he’d ever come up with to explain why his parents barely spoke but still stayed together. Harry never understood how you could be with someone without loving them, because what’s the point of life without love? Why would the Earth grow flowers if we shouldn’t pick them? 

Harry had always brought home flowers for his mother to show her that he at least cared. He’d always been closer to her, spending his evenings at home curled up with her and listening to her tell stories of ancient greek myths. They’d both been enamoured with the past.

Harry wondered what kind of secrets a man like this would have. He was bright, sunny, and carried an air of assurance. Surely he charmed enough lovers to have children speckled all over the continent. Harry felt himself blush at the thought as the man broke the moment. “I have an idea.”

Harry hummed in question.

“I don’t think Da Vinci is quite as clever as he thinks he is,” He moved from the desk, Harry shifting out of the way, and explained as he walked to the window, “He hasn’t accounted for the fact that we have windows and we can do this.”

He flipped the paper over and pressed it to the window, and of course the words shone through. The right way around.

The man looked back to Harry, his grin saying ‘ta da’. 

Harry instinctively picked up a sheet of blank paper and a pencil and followed him over.

The man said, “I can barely read any of it. I’ll hold it, and you translate?”

Harry nodded and began scribbling out the words on his own sheet of paper.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, in complete silence as Harry wrote and the man watched. 

He didn’t, but if Harry had looked over at the man’s face he would have seen an expression of revere. He would have seen the way his eyes barely noticed the pencil on paper, favouring the look of concentration of Harry’s face.

 

The text was written like a letter to a lover, addressed to ‘il mio bellissimo’. 

Harry had seen it immediately and been unsure if he should translate it to its English counterpart, ‘My beautiful’. A pet name. Doing so would surely bring up questions that he’d likely have to answer for this stranger. Harry didn’t know this man, didn’t trust him yet, didn’t know whether bringing up a name of affection, especially if this was from Da Vinci to Melzi as Harry immediately suspected, would elicit the wrong response. Harry didn’t want to be stuck in a shut office with no one around if he were to try and explain the suspected nature of Melzi and Da Vinci’s relationship, and he felt so strongly that he didn’t want to feel forced into having to degrade homosexuality either.

Harry had always lived his life quietly but confidently, knowing in his bones that he was fine just the way he was. Knowing that it was the world around him that simply didn’t understand what it meant to be like him. He hid in plain sight, never really talking about it but still meeting other men in the ways that he could. Going to theatre shows, making late night visits to the library or taking a walk to a certain area of the local park. He’d once been to Berlin with his family over the summer holidays and snuck off for a night to see the parts of the city where he was accepted readily and happily - where people kissed openly and hearts were broken honestly. Nothing had compared to Berlin. When Harry felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, when he’d kiss a boy for a long time and then be struck in the face by them only two minutes later when it was all done, he’d always think of Berlin and how he could find places that existed for him when he was ready. Perhaps if his sisters or his mother didn’t want him around anymore and he had nothing to lose. 

He’d heard whispers of how Berlin had changed, of how people had started to go back underground or disappear altogether. How the air had shifted and time was turning back for people like Harry there. But still, he hoped, time might turn forward again for Berlin and he could go back. And if not, he’d make a home for himself somewhere. Hopefully.

Harry wasn’t sure if he should talk on Da Vinci’s behalf, out him, at least yet. He settled on leaving the pet name as it was, untranslated, so at least he could explain it as a word that didn’t have an English equivalent. 

He did the same for the ‘Your star’ signed at the bottom of the letter, leaving it as ‘La tua stella’.

 

Soon enough, Harry had finished translating. His page was a mess, words at all angles from attempting to write up against the window. He pulled away from the window at last and showed the man the translated copy.

They were stood close, needed to in order to copy the text over, and as Harry pulled away with his finished work he had expected the sliver of space between them to open up wide. For either to take a step apart now that the work was done. 

But the man didn’t move, taking the the sheet of paper from Harry. The air between them felt charged, electric, but Harry wasn’t sure if he was imagining it.

As the man read the text, Harry didn’t move away either.

  
  
  
  


**_Il mio bellissimo,_ **

 

**_Please forgive me. I cannot do as you asked. I am but flesh and bone, a small cog in the machine of the universe, but I cannot bare the spillage of my blood for paper. You would call me too proud, I know of this, but we would surely both suffer should eyes meet our words. The world should know of these articles, but this is not the right time. I am laying them to rest until it is safe, may those who seek us out understand this world more than our peers._ **

 

**_I have left another letter where the serpent eats a praying man. You can find it where you gave me a ring of stars, before the twelve feasting apostles who could not see us. Look for a small way home._ **

 

**_I miss you._ **

 

**_Yours truly,_ **

**_La tua stella._ **

  
  


The man was thoughtful for a while, his eyes shifting between the note and off into space. He bit his nail.

Somehow, he didn’t ask about the words left in Italian. It was like he didn’t notice them, instead focused on the second paragraph, pointing to it. 

“This riddle….” He thought aloud, “Do you think it’s got to do with the snake on the telescope.. And the priest?”

He walked back to the desk and picked up the telescope, turning it to show Harry the side with the snake on it. 

The man tittered to himself, “This is the Biscione, look.”

Harry stepped over to him and the man handed the telescope over. 

The snake  _ was _ the Biscione, the emblem of Milan - a serpent eating a man. Between the floral carving was indeed a snake swirling in the same fashion of the Biscione and swallowing a tiny person whole. Harry grinned wide, “You’re right. So this means there is a next letter, and it’s somewhere in Milan?”

The man nodded and looked back over the note. “This says ‘where the serpent eats a praying man’, and there’s a priest on the telescope too. My guess is it’s in a church. Is there anything special about the priest on there?” He motioned towards the telescope Harry was holding.

Harry turned the telescope over and studied the priest closely. The carving showed a priest standing, his features too small to discern any emotions. Though he stood with one hand raised in profile as if to pray, the other held a scroll.

“He is holding a scroll, but that’s all I can see. It doesn’t really tell us much.”

Harry racked his brain for a church in Milan, rifling through his memory for all that he knew had existed, any that he’d visited on his many trips to see The Renaissance in the flesh. But where to even begin? They could visit all the churches in the entire continent and not know where the next letter could be hidden. 

Harry thought of the note, thinking over what he’d written down. Something about stars and twelve men.

“Can I read that again?” Harry asked, extending his hand for the note to be returned. The man give it to him and he reread his writing.

 

‘ **_You can find it where you gave me a ring of stars, before the twelve feasting apostles who could not see us.’_ **

 

It was Harry’s turn to think aloud, let the man in on his thoughts. 

“Twelve feasting apostles…” His voice was almost a whisper, hiding under his breath. This seemed like an important detail and he was about to consider what it meant when the other man cut him off. 

“You mean like the twelve apostles in The Last Supper?”

Harry looked up at him and the man was grinning widely. 

“Even I know that one,” he quipped, a smirk at the end. 

Harry couldn’t help but let his mouth hang in a dumbfounded smile, “Oh. yeah. That’s quite an obvious clue isn’t it.”

“Oh, is it? Am I just an twit then?”

“No, I just… No. I don’t know. I just should have known too.”

The man actually reached out and softly smacked Harry’s arm, “Can’t fit everything up there, Mr. Smarty Pants,” He laughed and continued, “Besides, I’ve been to the church it’s in before. Two years ago, I think. But I remember how to get there.”

Harry had been there too, but it was escaping him how long it had been in this moment. This man was so comfortable, he’d stood so closely to him and had even touched him. And yet he didn’t even know his name.

Right in that moment, Harry realised that the man had never said a name. Harry had never asked, and now it was simply too late. He couldn’t just stop mid-conversation and drop a ‘ _ hang on, you never told me who you are _ ’.

Harry spent a short moment looking off into space. He must have looked like he was thinking. Or ignoring the man’s joke. Harry was pulled back to reality, realizing he must be seeming rude, and looked up at the man. He was still smiling, waiting, oblivious to be frank.

“Uh,” Harry started, remembering where the conversation had been, “I’ve been there too. I think. Uh, yeah. It’s called the…” He racked his brain, flustered, snapping his fingers to show he was trying to remember. “The Santa Maria-”

The man jumped on the name, excitedly remembering it too, and finished Harry’s sentence in unison, “Delle Grazie!”

“Yes! That’s it!” The man beamed, ‘You’re brilliant!”

And suddenly everything was happening so quickly. The man was grabbing Harry’s arm, talking about  _ let’s go _ and  _ right now _ and  _ couldn’t do it without you _ . But then he had a pencil and was writing down a time,  _ 8am _ , and telling Harry to meet him back here in the morning and that it will be fantastic to not work alone. 

Harry was trying his best to keep up, but he could feel his responsibilities pulling on his sleeve, “Wait, wait, wait. Hang on a minute.”

He thought of the exams from his own classes he’d have to mark, the thesis he needed to dedicate his summer to, and how long would this take? What if the next letter just leads to another and another? How much of his summer would be pulled out from under his feet?

“I can’t just up and leave, I have everything here. Marking exams and my writing...”

The man considered this for a moment. At the same time Harry considered actually going with him and what that would mean. He could stay here and mark some papers, read some books, or he could go off to Italy and potentially find lost artefacts from  _ the _ Leonardo Da Vinci. That could change his entire thesis, his entire life. 

“How long would it take you to mark your exams?” The man asked.

The exams he’d started the day before took about half an hour each, and he had done four out of his twenty. 

“I guess, at least eight hours...” He drawled out, calculating as he talked, “If I really tried. I’d need a day.”

A day. Only a day. Yet a day felt like an eternity and Harry could feel his excitement bubble up an spill over. This could actually happen, he could actually go. He felt feverish, thoughts spinning in his head. All too quickly, he quizzed, “How long would we be gone? I still need to write my thesis.”

The man visibly showed his glee, he knew Harry was swayed really, “Does it matter? Are you really going to let this pass you by?”

Harry knew he didn’t need to answer. They both looked at each other and somehow a smile painted both of their faces at the exact same time. They both knew that, really, this was happening. They were going to just go off and look for whatever it was they were looking for. 

Harry knew this was important. Not just for the fact that Da Vinci was involved. There was something monumental about this, meeting this man, starting this journey. 

 

The two of them worked over the details, Harry would be at Oxford Station at 11am on Monday morning. Everything would be sorted for him, apparently. The man spoke like he could snap his fingers and have anything done.

Soon enough, the man was packing up. He carefully rolled the letter back up and slid it back into the telescope. He closed it completely, placing the eye piece back on it and turning one of the dials so they would only need to turn it once to open it back up again. He kept talking of how amazing this was, how he was so  _ thankful  _ and _ excited _ . It was a constant stream of feverish chatter and all Harry could do was agree and agree and agree.

It felt like the wind had changed, so fast the man was up and out and walking down the hallway. Harry was left in the doorway wondering how this tornado of a man had swept every sane thought from his mind. He felt dumbfounded, frazzled, over the moon.

As Harry watched his footsteps walk away, he noted how the man was so strong and assured and yet so small and excitable. An enigma. Something so out of the ordinary. The thought of being on a trip, just the two of them, felt so dangerous. Harry felt like he might be walking on hot coals just to try and keep his head on. How could someone walk away and look so powerful and rugged, yet not make Harry fear for his safety. He only feared for his sanity.

As the man turned the corner and disappeared, Harry let his thoughts wander even more, thinking about what kind of life he’s lived, where he came from, who he works for and why hadn’t he asked about any of these things before agreeing to disappear to another country with him? Harry started to feel ludicrous, he must have already lost his sanity. He didn’t know anything about this person. 

He didn’t even know his name.

Harry snapped to attention, realizing that now he’d left it truly too late. Stopping a conversation midway was one kind of embarrassing, but waiting till you were in another country altogether was simply idiotic. He couldn’t leave it any longer.

He didn’t even bother to lock the office door before he was running, flying, down the hallway trying to catch up. He turned corners and ran through doorways so quickly, his hands would bruise in the morning from trying to stop himself from falling into walls at full speed. Harry had made it back to the front door of the building and still hadn’t seen the man.

Harry burst through the front doors and there, skipping down the stairs, was the man. He immediately looked back up, a questioning smile at the sight of a panting Harry.

“What’s-” A sharp breath- “what’s your name-” Another one- “I never got it.”

“Oh,” the man’s smile grew. He chuckled. “Yeah.” He almost looked smug, like he didn’t make a habit of giving out his name, and less of a habit of having anyone even think to ask it.

“It’s Louis.”

“Louis?”

“Yeah, Louis,” He smiled again. No last name apparently, but Harry took it.

And then off Louis went, and Harry was left at the top of the stairs. 

Panting.

Breathless.

 


	5. The Trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at forreveries.tumblr.com

Monday 

June 17th, 1935.

Oxford Station.

Harry checked his pocket watch, 10.36am. He’d been here since 10 o’clock, just to be sure. He’d arrived early because there was nothing left to do. After waking up at half five, Harry had repacked twice - attempting to take out two extra books and at least two of his outfits, only to end up with three more books and a whole other suitcase. He’d changed in and out of his chosen cream slacks, matching polo and blue checkered sweater about three times. Unsure if blue slacks and a white sweater vest might do better, he packed them anyway. After that, Harry paced his room enough times that he could have simply walked to Milan.

The morning rush at Oxford Station had since passed, although a small crowd remained along the edges of the platform. Harry stood back from them, unsure of where Louis would be coming from. 

Harry felt on edge, having waited here so long already that he’d worked himself up into a frenzy, convinced that something was wrong. He was at the wrong station, he’d come the wrong day, Louis had forgotten. 

He pulled out the scrap of paper Louis had written their arrangements on from his jacket pocket -  _ Oxford Station, 11 o’clock, Monday _ . Harry had it memorized by now, having repeated this process about six times in the last half hour. He knew he was being irrational, that this was the right time and place, but the waiting and waiting had etched anxiety into his mind.

Two kids were playing around their mother’s ankles. She kept pulling them into herself, worried she’d lose them, but they would duck and chase each other. A man near them looked visibly annoyed, smoking a cigarette and moving away. The girl caught Harry’s eye and she smiled up at him. He smiled back, giving a little wave. She didn’t return the wave, being pushed along by her brother, and Harry chuckled to himself as he watched them tumble and giggle. 

Harry checked his watch again, 10.40. It had only been four minutes. Time hadn’t quite felt real the entire weekend. It seemed to have ebbed and flowed, from too quickly and now too slowly. The events of the day still hadn’t quite sunk in. Harry was standing here on the station platform, but his feet didn’t feel on solid ground. The feeling of anxiety started to creep back up on him when a familiar voice took its place.

“You’re here early.”

Harry turned, and there was Louis grinning up at him. He took a startled step back straight into his two stacked suitcases. There was a sick moment where he felt like he might tumble, but an outstretched arm held him steady. Harry’s cheeks immediately burned.

Louis let out a small hush of laughter, “Alright there, Boss.”

Harry might have felt more embarrassed had Louis not let slip a small  _ sorry _ under his breath. Instead, he smiled and asked Louis why he was here early too.

“Tickets, of course,” He pulled two squares of paper from the pocket of his grey slacks. “Never know what kind of line to expect.”

Harry asked Louis of his morning, of his weekend, trying to be polite.

“Just planned out our little trip, nothing exciting. We’ll get the Ferry from Dover and spend the night in Calais, if that’s okay?”

Harry nodded.

“But what of you? Did you finish marking those exams alright?”

Harry had, but he could only hope he’d done them justice. The weekend was a frantic blur of marking papers and thinking up all sorts of ways that this trip could go. It had been hard to focus and not let his mind wander.

As he told Louis about the boring details of some kid’s unfortunate essay on Botticelli, Harry realised that Louis didn’t have any luggage with him, only the same leather satchel he’d had before, strapped across his chest. He was a free man to wander about the station without fear of losing anything, could stand there with hands comfortably in his pockets. It was perplexing that one person could live out of a bag that small.

Louis, it seemed, was the kind of person who didn’t need much. He was content to let the conversation move at a comfortable pace. As the train pulled into the station, Louis had been asking Harry about Oxford, how he could still be university and not out there doing things - living life.

Louis picked up one of Harry’s suitcases without question and walked with him to board the train. He listened but Harry was unsure if he was actually paying attention. Louis’ comfortable face was turned to where they were going and not giving anything away. 

Harry contemplated if he might get away with spilling the beans. If he could say that he was actually scared to leave university and be faced with the expectations of life and his family. Living and breathing in his studies meant that he could exist without giving himself away, he could live in a world he had created. No one expected marriages yet. He didn’t have to live up to his eldest brother if he wasn’t around to be constantly compared to his harsh edges. It’s easier to be seen as a letter home curated once a month, than a person once a day.

Harry didn’t tell Louis how he felt too fragile to show himself brazenly to this world, that his books and art protected him for now. He told him that he simply liked being at university, enjoyed working towards something. Learning things.

As Harry stepped up onto the train, Louis led him to one of the private booths whilst managing to stay behind him, with the quiet chirping in his ear about how far down to go, the occasional brush of a finger tip on an elbow. Harry could feel the suitcase that Louis was holding occasionally bump into his calf as they made their way down the skinny hallway. The carriage wasn’t crowded at all, but Louis felt impossibly close. 

Harry didn’t have time to process it because soon enough he was in the booth and Louis had latched the door behind them. They took opposite seats, each scooting in on their side of the table. Harry’s suitcases sat on the seat beside him and Louis’ satchel remained as it always did - strapped across him.

As they settled, Harry hooked his feet together and placed his hands politely in his lap, unsure of what came next. When he looked up at Louis, he just smiled back contently and turned to look out the window.

They stayed in a silence for a while, Louis looking out to the moving platform as the train took off. Harry wanted to talk, but he didn’t know what to say. He was tongue tied over the way the trees and sky shone on Louis’ face. His eyes seemed to sparkle brilliantly. Instead of asking about Louis’ background, or the actual details of how they’d get to Italy, or if he could even trust him, Harry just sort of stared.

A knock came at the door and Harry jumped out of his socks. It was just the ticket inspector making his rounds, but Harry felt caught out. There was a glass window in the door and Harry pictured the man’s pointed face glaring at him through it, his dark features lacquered with disdain.

“Morning, Sirs,” He said with a heavy Scottish accent.

Louis’ head turned to the man and gave a small nod, “Morning!” 

He handed over the tickets without being asked.

As the man took them, he looked between Harry and Louis, “This a business or pleasure trip, then?” He smiled crookedly. Though that could have just been his face.

Harry didn’t say anything, just looked for Louis to answer.

“Business as always, Ewen,” Louis gave his signature smirk and leant back in his seat.

The man gave a begrudging smile, “Ye mustn’t call me that, Sir.”

“Why not, Ewen, it’s your name,” Louis’ voice quirked up at the end. Teasing. His heavy Northern accent cuddling his words.

Ewen gave a look of  _ I hate you but I love you,  _ his eyebrow raising just a little, and punctured the tickets. 

“You can call me that when I don’t have to wake you at your stop anymore.”

“Promise?” Louis asked as Ewen handed the tickets back.

The man replied in a small voice, unsure of himself but trying anyway, “I don’t think I should ever promise you anything, Sir.”

Louis beamed proudly at that, “Definitely not.”

Ewen left the booth with a an exasperated expression, a secret smile tucked in there somewhere.

Harry was about to ask how Louis knew this man by his first name, but he was interrupted. As soon as the door clicked shut again, Louis immediately turned back to Harry pointedly.

“Okay, finally,” He started, reaching into his trouser pocket and bringing out a scrap of paper. Louis placed it on the table and continued, “I have some thoughts.”

Harry hummed in reply, still caught by the events of the last five minutes.

Louis looked to the door, checking for more lanky Scottish men, and his voice went low, “I think we’re looking for a compass.”

He unfolded the sheet of paper. It was the one that Harry had transcribed the letter onto, but now it was circled and had other notes scribbled in thick ink around it.

“I was thinking about what we should actually be looking for when we get to the church, and I kept reading this over and over,” Louis turned the note so it faced Harry, “It says ‘look for a small way home’”. 

Then Louis reached into his satchel and brought out a leather notebook, its pages stiff and watermarked. He flipped to two random pages near the back of it, showing Harry sketches of the telescope and copies of the drawings from the original note. They were dark and angular, sketchy. 

“The telescope has a compass on one of its sides, and the drawing on the note….” He pointed at his copy of the drawings of the decorative box not torn away in Da Vinci’s copy, “I think this could be its casing.”

Harry nodded along as he talked, this all made sense. A compass could be a literal ‘small way home’. So easy.

“The rest of the picture would have been really helpful, though…” Louis wavered off.

Harry thought aloud, “Who do you think tore it, and why?”

Louis looked somewhere between thoughtful and annoyed, “Who could know. It must be important though, right?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. He agreed, but he wanted Louis to have faith in him, think he knew what he was doing. 

Louis sat back in his seat, leaving the note and the book to sit freely on the table. 

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” His voice was unusually small.

There was a long moment between them, Harry looking out the window as he thought about all the ways this could go wrong. They could turn up at the church and somewhere in the 400 years since Da Vinci’s time, the compass could have been moved. Could have been destroyed. It seemed likely. Surely someone had stumbled across it at some point. Harry bit his lip, moving it between his teeth as it sunk in how stupidly hopeful he’d been. There was next to no way they’d find anything that hadn’t already been found in a place as busy as Milan.

He sat quietly with his thoughts, somewhere caught between youthful hope and lived doubt. 

Harry turned back to find Louis watching him intently. Louis didn’t immediately say anything, and he didn’t smile for once. Instead, he looked just as pensive as Harry. Like he was holding back. He wasn’t carelessly lounging in his seat like he had in Fletcher’s office anymore, but rather looking like he was about to get up. Or fall back into his seat. Unsure.

Louis eventually sucked in a sliver of air and started, “I have a question.”

“Mmm?”

Another moment, this one shorter. Louis bit his lower lip and rubbed a thumb to the table between them, “I translated Bellissimo.”

A wave of sick washed over Harry and he looked for a way out, “That’s not a question.”

A tiny simper tugged at the edge of Louis’ mouth, “Why didn’t you translate it?”

Harry wasn’t sure how to answer, wasn’t ready to get on to this topic. Yet again he’d found himself worrying of the repercussions to talking of homosexuality in a shut room, alone with a man he was particularly fond of.

“Why  _ did _ you translate it?”

Louis rolled his eyes, tried to hide it, and let out an amused breath, “Because, Harry, I wanted to know what we were looking for in Milan. So I went to a certain university library, since it was so conveniently close while waiting for you over the weekend, and asked for some help. Turns out, it means ‘Beautiful’, and it’s the masculine form. Meaning it’s addressed to a man, I’m guessing Melzi. So I’m wondering why you wouldn’t know this, Mr. Smarty Pants.”

The words hung over Harry, there was no getting out of this now. So, he tested the waters. In a small voice, he said, “I… did.”

Louis seemed quite pleased about this.

“So why not translate it?”

“I... wasn’t sure how you’d react if I said Da Vinci was writing love letters to another man. This is such an important find and I didn’t want to lose the chance to chase it if you would let that stop us.”

Louis thought for a moment, biting his lip again. He turned his head to look out the window, trees speeding past, and cleared his throat.

“I wouldn’t,” His voice was indecipherable.

Harry shovelled himself as far back into the seat as he could. This was better than being punched to the floor but it still felt like a kick to the gut. Maybe he’d expected Louis to say  _ I would never, Harry _ and squeeze his hand, kiss it.

The air felt heavy, the click clack of the rail beneath them punctuating each sober second that passed by.

But then Louis did something unexpected. He kept looking outside, only glancing over at Harry, and said, “Tell me about them, Da Vinci and Melzi. Why would Da Vinci leave all these puzzles for him?”

“Um,” Harry felt a shot of relief, supposing this wasn’t a forbidden topic, but a dose of fear was in there too. He was still unsure of how to approach this, at what point he will have gone too far.

“Da Vinci stayed with Melzi’s family for some time at their home in Milan. They met when he was really quite young and Da Vinci took a fancy to him, apparently, so took him under his wing to teach him-”

“How young?”

“Uh…” Harry paused, visibly uncomfortable. His answer was dotted with question marks, “Fourteen.”

Louis’ eyes went wide, actual distaste painting his face. 

“Well, shit.” He half chuckled, alleviating, “That is.. Too young.”

“Yeah, I’ve never been sure how to deal with that fact. Those were the times, frankly, and I don’t know when they would have gotten close enough to be…. Writing love letters. But, yes. Not particularly nice.”

“You can say that twice. He was basically his father.”

“Well he was his studio boy for years, so he might as well have been…” Harry paused for a moment, his voice ruminating, “I think that makes it kind of worse.”

Louis’ eyebrows said an emphatic  _ yes _ . 

Harry thought for a second, searching for a reason to chase after a man who picked up kids not yet bordering adulthood.

He said at last, punctuated with thoughtful pauses, “Though… I had assumed the telescope was left to Melzi in Da Vinci’s death - at which point they had spent so many years together, one would hope their relationship was more… equal. It’s just… the letter seemed so final - like he’d given up. Like it was the end of something… I can’t help wondering what they were hiding. Melzi shared so much of Da Vinci’s work in the Codex Urbanis after he passed… Why not whatever this leads to? That seems so important.”

“Maybe Melzi never opened it?”

“Why was the letter torn then?”

They both sat back in their seats, unable to come up with an answer. If it had been opened by someone else since, why not take the entire note? Why tear off a single corner? What was on that second drawing?

The rest of the train ride was spent in a quiet haze of far off thoughts. Both Harry and Louis seemed to take turns resting heads on hands, staring out the window, trying to come up with explanations - endless possibilities. They would spend a few minutes pinching their brains and then jump to an idea that would, in turn, only bring up more questions. Each time a new possibility slowly gleamed into vision, somewhere dotted between the rotted carcases of old country sheds passing by, one of them would jump to attention. Harry might thud his knee against the underside of the table, knocking his toes into Louis’, making both of them stir in their seats. Louis might catch a thought, another question, and eagerly reach out to tap Harry’s forearm before sitting back. Each time, an excited smile, a laugh, would escape them.

Soon enough, Harry caught himself no longer conspiring about Renaissance men, but instead fancying about the one across from him. He’d found himself hoping Louis would think of something new just so he might reach out and touch him again. All that he could think was how utterly normal this felt, how the conversation might ebb and flow, but the silences never felt awkward. It wasn’t awkward when Louis touched Harry, and Louis never seemed to notice the way Harry’s arm hairs would stand on end, his fingers feather light and already gone by the time Harry had realised. 

Eventually the conversation drifted away from them, Harry too distracted to come up with anything new. He’d settled into watching the way Louis sat back into his seat and watched out the window. Buildings outside blocked the sun from view, and darkenedd amber flashed past Louis’ blue eyes with each house they passed. Harry shifted into the very corner of his seat, resting his curls against the vibrating glass of the window, and forced himself to not stare at Louis for the rest of the trip, seem so obvious, instead attempting to look out the window too.

The passing landscape had become greyer, duller, and in comparison Louis had seemed so much brighter. Harry couldn’t help but glance back over.

As he did, Louis looked back over to him. Smiled. He was sat in the exact same fashion as Harry, tucked into the corner with his head on the glass. Two sides of the same coin.

Harry smiled back genuinely, letting out just a little of his real self. Not self conscious that he would be beaten for doing so. It was easy to follow in Louis’ suit.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the ticking of the train no longer sober, but in time to Harry’s heartbeat. Fluttering.

The train whistled.

The dock was a swelling mess of people, luggage, and cars. 

Harry had to maze his way through the crowd, Louis’ protective hand on his elbow again, guiding him. As Harry attempted to go left, around an incredibly large and loud Irish family, Louis would steer him right. Somehow this would bring them past a dog that Harry hadn’t spotted, but Louis would bend over for a fleeting pat.

Harry tittered at this, turning when the hand left his arm, “Of course.”

Louis looked up at him, smile wide open with a chuckle, “Of course!” He winked and moved them on.

They continued through the crowds, the sounds of laughing and crying muffling together into strange song. The sound of lapping waves could only just be heard under it.

There wasn’t even a line to board, per se, just person after person meandering onto the ferry. It seemed that they’d arrived early enough that everyone was still preoccupied with their business on land - saying their farewells, sorting their tickets, finding lost children.

And so Harry stepped up onto the beam between the dock and boat, clasping at the metal handrail to steady himself. The waves were shallow but bouncy, and his footsteps were precarious. He paused for a short moment, not scared or anything, just adjusting.

The hand on his elbow squeezed and Harry stepped aboard.

The ferry itself was modest, no large ship like those he’d taken to the mediterranean with his family. The base deck was wide open to the sea and mostly bare, save a few cars parked along it. In the middle of the deck was a set of stairs that inevitably led up to the passenger level. A pleasant, burly man greeted them at the bottom of the stairs, his sun blistered face glistening with a wholehearted smile. 

As they made their way up, the ferry swayed, her bones creaking.

Harry walked into the seating room, sunlight dulling under the closed roof. 

The room was rowed with seats, half full, all facing the front like church pews. The passengers who were aboard were already tipping back drinks from the small bar at the front of the room. The room was cool, ocean air rolling in through the open windows.

They took one of the seats in the back, Louis scooting in first so he could put both of Harry’s suitcases on the window seat and lean on them. He seemed to keep a watchful eye out, looking out at all the other passengers settling into their own seats. He stayed like this until the ferry left port, his eyes gazing over the happenings of everyone else onboard. 

Harry’s eyes followed Louis’, looking out to everyone else. The wonder of what Louis was thinking in the back of his mind. He seemed careful in the way he was before the ticket inspector, Ewen, had made his appearance. 

“You okay?” Harry asked, his voice timid.

“Mm,” Louis hummed, flicking his eyes to Harry, a smile following suit, “Yeah.”

“Just people watching, then?”

Louis nodded distractedly, but shifted back into his seat, seemingly satisfied about whatever he was thinking about, and turned to look out the window.

Louis remained quiet for a while, the chatter of people filling the space between them. Harry wanted to ask him more, ask why he was careful in front of strangers when he seemed so confident, brazen, with him. But it didn’t seem the time and place.

He settled on telling Louis he needed to go to the bathroom.

“Sure thing,” Louis replied, his smile popping back up. Like it was a reflex whenever someone talked to him. Louis begun to get out of his seat, seemingly following him. 

“You know, I can go by myself,” Harry stated, trying to joke.

“Oh okay,” Louis replied, voice deflating, “Just...” He tried to smile and make it look real, “Please tell me if you go anywhere again.”

Harry nodded, slightly confused, and turned to find the bathroom. It was tucked away at the back of the boat, only a few meters away from where they had been seated. The bathroom was tiny, the white paint that coated the metal walls emanated a cold air. Harry didn’t even need to go, so he sat on the toilet seat and stared at the door. He counted to one hundred and questions of why Louis seemed to have two sides to him swirled around in his mind with each count.

When he was done, Harry stood up and washed his hands so that if someone were to shake them, they would feel the cool dew and think he’d been using the bathroom as intended.

Opening the door, Harry could see the back of Louis’ head tipped forwards. As he came closer he could see that Louis was hunched over a book.

“What are you reading?” Harry asked, making Louis jump.

“Oh! Uh, just some Agatha Christie.” 

“Who would have thought you were a reader, huh,” Harry smiled, trying to get Louis back to his colourful self.

“And what’s that supposed to mean, hm?” Louis asked back, a tinge of smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Harry sat back in his seat and nudged Louis’ arm as he replied, “You just don’t seem the type, I guess.”

“And what’s  _ that _ supposed to mean?” The smile grew.

“Too rugged.”

“Oh, I’m rugged am I?” The smile was now a smirk.

Harry felt himself have gone too far, maybe admitting something, “Oh, I don’t know…” 

Louis interrupted him, “Oh, I’m Louis and I’m too handsome and rugged to read words, woe is me!” He laughed, pretending to flip his hair like a damsel in distress.

Harry rolled his eyes, amused and indignant, “That’s definitely not what I meant.”

Louis continued, “Oh Harry, please save me with your expensive university degrees. I just want to read so badly, I need you!”

“Heeey,” Harry drew out, chuckling. 

Louis laughed and patted Harry’s arm, “Poor, poor baby.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, being called baby, no matter how sarcastic it was. He looked at Louis sullenly, making him laugh even more, and then asked which of Christie’s books it was.

“Murder on the Orient Express,” Louis answered, flipping the book shut and handing it to Harry, “Guess what it’s about.”

“A murder?”

“So smart,” Louis chuckled, “It’s quite good. I really like her Poirot series.”

“Me too,” Harry said. He’d read this book already, and all the others of the series too, “Who do you think killed Ratchett?”

Louis’ eyebrows knitted together, “Don’t you spoil it for me, mate.” 

He took the book back.

Harry put his hands up in defence, “I won’t! I’m just curious.”

“Well curiosity killed the cat, Harry,” Louis grinned.

“But… Satisfaction brought it back?”

Louis opened the book to keep reading and waggled a finger, “But I don’t want you putting any ideas in my head, even if you don’t mean to.” 

They settled into that, Louis reading his book. Harry deciding whether he should ask Louis to get one of his own books from one of the suitcases for him to read too. He didn’t though, instead resting his head back and tucking his arms into one another, turning his eyes to watch the waves roll outside.

Dover was the size of Harry’s hand by now. He raised his hand to check, making Louis shift his eyes up from his book momentarily, and indeed it was no taller than three of his fingers. He lazily lifted his index finger up and down, watching the city disappear and reappear.

Next to him, Louis had shifted to lean his right arm upon the suitcases, resting his head on that hand, and continuing reading from his left. He pressed the book into his lap so he could turn the pages with just the one hand.

Harry savoured the comfortable silence, lapping up the fresh ocean air and sunlight bouncing off Louis’ skin. It felt good to know that Louis’ silence was because he was engrossed in a book, not conscious of other people for whatever reason. He wondered if he was the only person to notice Louis’ underlying pensive nature, if anyone was privy to Louis beyond his million dollar smile that was plastered across his face anytime he talked to someone new. It felt like a secret he had to keep, and not bring up until they were alone again. Harry had so many questions for Louis, his catalogue building with every minute he spent with him. Finding out he read books, and went to libraries to ask for help, and didn’t let Da Vinci and Melzi’s relationship change his enthusiasm for following in their footsteps.

In the heat of everyone’s bodies aboard, Harry didn’t want to ask, didn’t want give Louis a reason to go clammy again. He’d keep his questions until that night, when they’d stop in a hotel for a few fleeting hours of sleep.

Harry felt a weight on his knee, a small knock.

Looking down, Louis’ knee had fallen onto his and had remained nestled there. It felt both heavy and light, the actual touch was barely there but the feeling it sent to Harry’s stomach was so so heavy. Heavy, tied-to-rocks, butterflies.

He shifted a little to see if Louis would pull away, but Harry was a little too careful to not actually pull his leg away all together.

Louis’ leg stayed exactly where it was, shifted as Harry’s leg did, following in suit.

Cautious, Harry bent his head forwards a little to check if he could see Louis’ face, see if he was playing with him. Harry kept his haunches up, timid to check.

Louis’ face was covered by his honeyed fringe, the whisper of his eyelashes just barely visible. His eyes were closed. Asleep.

Harry leant back again carefully. He had to bite his lip to stop a smile stretching across his face. Louis looked so delicate as he slept, and Harry promised himself that he didn’t pull his leg away because he didn’t want to disturb him. Not because the warm weight was the best thing to happen to him all day. 

He sat there a good while, eyes fixed on where their trouser creases folded into each other. Another secret about Louis he wanted to keep to himself.

A voice came from next to Harry, warm and airy. The kind of voice women in department stores put on when they wanted you to buy something. He immediately moved his leg away from Louis’, bones jumping out of his skin

“Excuse me, sir.” 

Harry looked up to the voice, finding a slight woman with a shock of bright orange hair curled above her shoulders. Her features were sharp and just as delicate as her voice, skin saturated with tiny freckles. She smiled apologetically as Harry turned to her, “Sorry, but I dropped my purse and it’s slid under your seat.”

“Oh,” Harry started, clumsily shifting his weight, suddenly unaware of where his limbs were meant to be, “I’ll get it for you, don’t worry Miss.”

“Thank you so much,” She replied, her smile toothy..

Harry started to move out of his seat, lean past Louis’ sleeping frame, when Louis slid out of his sleep, making a small ‘hmf’ sound as he shuffled his legs together and lifted his head.

“Sorry,” Harry started, his voice coming out as almost a whisper. “I just need to-” Louis blinked his eyes at Harry, eyes quizzing- “get this woman’s purse.” He motioned his hand over to her.

“What woman?” Louis asked, eyes piercing.

Harry looked up to where his hand was hovering. At nothing. 

“She was right... Here...” His voice trailed off, dumbfounded.

Louis’ eyes knitted together slightly, looking around the cabin for the red-headed woman. His voice was careful as he spoke, “Be careful, okay.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“Just…” Louis’ trailed between words, quiet and clammy again, “Don’t worry. Uh, you just never know if someone’s… actually in need… or, uh, playing you… Just keep your wits about you.”

“I know that, but, I just wanted to help. She dropped her purse under our seat.”

Louis bent over, checking under his seat. His face was blank when he came back up.

“Well there’s nothing there and she’s gone now.”

Louis paused for a moment, offering a small smile that told Harry he’s not angry, just cautious, “Any how, are you hungry?”

They hadn’t eaten all day, Harry just realised. His stomach had been too distracted, caught up in daydreams about Louis’ left leg, to notice how hungry he’d become. They had barely done anything but sit and talk or sleep and wonder out a window, and yet he’d not got the chance to even think about food.

“Yes, actually,” Harry said.

“Good, me too,” Louis replied. He smiled and scooted past Harry, “You stay here and don’t talk to strangers, okay?”

Harry chuckled and nodded as Louis continued, “I’ll be back in a jiffy. Do you like sandwiches?”

Harry nodded again, a toothless smile on show.

Louis came back moments later, a sandwich in each hand and two oranges held between his forearms. They must have teetered as Louis walked because he made a face as he balanced it all together.

As he got back to Harry, Louis offered his arms so Harry could take the oranges and he would be able to move into the seat. Instead of taking his original seat, he motioned for Harry to move over so he could take the outside edge. Harry shuffled over to where the seat was still warm.

As they ate, Louis asked Harry about whether he’d been to the continent much before.

Harry answered as he ate, “Yeah, I’ve travelled a fair bit. I guess,” A bite. A few moments of quiet chewing, “I’ve been to all around the place at least once, and have been to Italy and Greece on several occasions. University and all. My family has always spent our summers somewhere other than home.”

“How come?”

Harry thought for a moment, trepidatious, but gave in to Louis’ question, “My mother always said it was good for us to see the world, but truth be told, I think she enjoyed being away from my father.”

Louis’ mouth twisted, his voice sympathetic, “I won’t pry,” He looked down at his half eaten sandwich as he talked, “At least you got to have some nice summers then?”

Harry hummed a yes, his mouth full, and nodded, “Definitely. My favourite memory has always been when one of my sisters took me to get gelato when we were in Cannes. I think I was about eleven. But she took me on the back of her bicycle and I just remember trying to eat it while we sped through the streets. I think I ended up with more in my hair than my mouth.”

Louis smiled at that, “Easy to be free as a kid, huh.”

Harry hadn’t thought about it like that before. The memory had always been entrenched in thoughts of hot French summers, the first time he’d looked at a boy and felt butterflies, dripping his gelato onto his sister’s back as he ogled. She’d screamed and giggled at the cold sticky sensation, swerving the bike a little and making Harry drop his gelato all together. Harry had always loved the memory because it was the last time he felt a total part of his family, not self conscious and over thinking about his place in it. But freedom made sense. It was freedom he was thinking about exactly, he’d just never put it into those words.

“Yeah,” Harry replied to Louis, “Yeah it is.”

“Tell me more about your sisters, more than one?”

“Mm,” Harry hummed, “Two sisters, two brothers. I’m the baby of the family.”

“It’s a wonder how you remember all their names,” Louis joked.

“My family’s not that big!” Harry protested, though he considered, “Is it?”

Louis shook his head, chuckling, “What are their names, then?”

“Thomas is the eldest, he's the spitting image of my father, and in business with him. Then it’s Katherine and Charlie - Charles - who both live in London with their families. And then it’s Gemma, and then me.”

“Are you close?”

“With my sisters more so, I guess,” Harry shrugged, “I’ve always spent the most time with Gemma since we’re the closest in age.”

“That sounds nice,” Louis smiled. Genuine.

“And what of you? Your family?”

“Oh,” Louis replied, slightly off guard, “Its, uh, always just been my mother and I.”

“Better than nothing, though,” Harry offered, smile in tow.

Louis hummed back to him and changed the subject, “Tell me about your trips abroad, Mr. Fancy Pants.”

Harry chuckled, and tried to reply without seeming too obnoxious. Money made him feel anxious. He liked having it, of course, but never wanted to make it seem that way. Harry told Louis about the summer he spent in Cannes, leaving out the details about why he dropped his gelato. He told of how all five of the Styles children would go up to Mougins when they were sick of the blue of the ocean, trading it in for cobbled streets and late evening dinners. Their mother would stay in their hotel, wispy drapes floating around her as she read book after book after book. She’d always read paragraphs to him when they returned red and sweaty at the end of the day, sitting with him as he bathed. Still young enough to not want to bath alone. Still too young to run off into the night like his elder siblings, leaving Gemma and him to talk into the early hours of the morning - their twin beds pushed up against each other.

“You’re so lucky, you know.” Louis would keep saying, somewhere between teasing and serious. 

Harry kept saying, “I know, I know,” and, “It wasn’t all perfect.” Eventually offering up how summers were the only time he felt free. Term time was spent avoiding his father and his harsh words. Louis never asked for more about Harry’s dad. He actually seemed to want Harry to avoid talking about it, asking him questions that brought back up the happy luxury of summer. Harry was thankful that he didn’t have to explain that he was never man enough for his father’s liking, too soft and girlish. Never holding himself in the right posture or talking in the right way. He blamed his being the youngest child and being so close with his mother and sisters as the culprit, and would alternate between making Harry join his hunting parties and play rugby with his brothers, and ignoring him all together. Eventually Harry had turned to hiding behind closed doors, filling his time with his mother’s book collection, and just hoping for a quiet evening to himself.

He’d sneak out occasionally, meeting up with his small group of school friends, to make mischief of the night. Run about fields, falling into muck and bumping into the odd man, hunched over and too drunk to stand. But once that turned to sneaking out to meet up with local girls, Harry spent less and less time chasing their tails.

Calais eventually came into view and both Harry and Louis watched as the sea walls that splintered out into the water eventually passed the ferry. The buildings beyond them seemed to loom right up to the water’s edge, canals shooting between them. Though it was now dinner time, the sun still clung high in the sky.

As they docked, the boat gently swaying against the wharf, both Harry and Louis stood. Louis picked up both of Harry’s suitcases wordlessly and motioned for them to go. Harry offered a hand to take one, and when Louis grinned and moved his hands away Harry purposefully used his height to reach around him and take one anyway.

“Get a move on,” Louis quipped as Harry tugged on the suitcase in his left hand. But he let him take it.

The line to get off the boat was much longer than the one getting on. The long line of passengers roped all the way up the stairs and around half of the cabin. So Harry didn’t get a move on. Instead, he stood where he was indignantly, watching with a grin that tried to match Louis’ until the line dwindled and they were the last to leave. 

Apparently, Louis didn’t have any qualms about this. Sitting back down in their seat, he crossed his legs together and watched Harry steady himself with each rock of the boat by grabbing the back of his seat.

As the very last of the people left, Louis stood back up again and said, “Alright, then. Let’s go.” 

And so they did.

The streets of Calais were crowded with rows of skinny buildings, each attached to the next to form colourful brick walls around them. Flags and trees and lamps lined the street, and Harry shook out his top to let the fresh air circulate his chest as they passed them all. Louis, he’d noticed, was a slower walker than him, so he took the time to walk lazily next to him. The sun was warmer this side of the channel and Harry’s sweatshirt had made its way under his arm. Louis’ brown leather jacket was tucked into the strap of his satchel.

“Our hotel is three streets that way,” Louis said, pointing inland. 

He didn’t have a map and so Harry asked, “Been here before?”

“Plenty of times,” Louis said, “It’s a good place to stop over.”

“Stop over to go where?” Harry asked cheekily, urging Louis to divulge more about his life.

“Lots of places,” Louis answered.

Harry, unhappy with this answer, nudged Louis’ side. 

“Lot’s of places,” He parroted, rolling his eyes and grinning.

Louis raised his brows and let out a small chuckle. 

As they walked further into the city, the streets became cooler. The sun was just so, so that the buildings cast shadows onto the streets between them. The streets were busier too, restaurants spilling over with hungry patro sitting at small round tables outsid under green umbrellas. Where Louis had rolled up his sleeves to his elbow, he now pulled them back down.

Louis didn’t say much as they walked, he seemed content to watch the happenings around him. It had only been a day, but Harry was growing used to the way he was quiet in crowds. It was a pattern starting to emerge. Quiet in busy places, but if you were the person he was talking to, you were someone to impress. Make laugh.

But then his face changed. At first Harry thought it was the shade of an awning they passed under, but there it stayed as they kept walking. It looked like Louis was deep in thought, his forehead tensing, eyes sharpening. 

“Hey Harry,” Louis said, voice quieter, “Stay close, okay?”

“Hm? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just, I don’t want anything to happen.”

“Like what?” Harry asked, his voice becoming more serious, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry. Just stay close. Okay?”

Harry looked around him. The street looked just as it did before, breezy and bright. People laughing and smoking over dinner. Women with dogs walking up the street.

“I think the worst thing that’s going to happen is me tripping on my own fee” Harry tried to joke. 

Louis didn’t laugh. 

He stopped in his tracks and gave Harry a warning look. Harry almost did trip on his feet trying to stop with him.

Louis spoke with a serious tone, his voice quiet, “Please Harry,” He started, lifting his left hand to place his knuckles against Harry’s arm, “Just-”

And then it happened.

A small hand reached from behind Louis and yanked the suitcase he was holding right out of his hands. In the beat that it took Louis to realise and reel around, the suitcase was entirely gone. He looked around the street to find the back of a young boy flying up the street. 

“Hey!” Louis called, already jumping into action, “Hey! Arrête!”

Louis ran up the street, pouncing after the boy, flinging himself through the gaps between people. When Harry realised what was going on, he chased after too, slipping through the gaps Louis had left. 

The suitcase Harry was still holding only slowed him down. 

Each step felt like he might tumble, the uneven paving beneath him catching his toes. He could barely see the heels of Louis’ shoes as he dodged people and dogs and cars.

Soon Louis was just a voice Harry could barely hear over the blood pumping through his ears. He was yelling at the boy in French, and he could have sworn he heard him swear.

Harry tried to to keep up, lugging his suitcase. Unbearably heavy now. He kept bumping into things. His feet hit the ground so hard as he tried to run that shock waves split up his shins.

There was a group a head of him, filling the entirety of the sidewalk. He was approaching them with lightning speed. A car was in the middle of the street, driving towards him. There was nowhere to go. 

He tried to pass through the group, slipping past a woman in a bright blue skirt. The suitcase seemed to catch in something, the skirt, tugging him back.

He tried to pull himself out of it. 

Keep going forwards. 

Try to find Louis. 

Follow the voices. 

But the skirt was in the way. The suitcase was in the way. He just needed to get past.

He tugged and the suitcase flung forwards. Right into him. And then Harry was flung forwards. He was in the group of people, the full force of his weight behind him. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere but into the man in front of him.

And then the world went sideways, the man above him a blur of browns and greys. And then the ground was all that he could see. He flung out his hands. Tried to stop himself. The suitcase was in the way. Dragging him the wrong way. And then the ground hit his shoulder. And the side of his head. And he didn’t know where he was.

The man he’d run into stood over him, shoulders blocking the sun. It seemed like he had an aura shining around him, twinkling around his staunch shoulders. He was saying something but Harry wasn’t taking note. His wrist was wet with blood and his shoulder wasn’t right, and his head was spinning.

There was a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly the woman in the blue skirt was helping him sit up.

“Es-tu blessé? Es-tu blessé?” She kept repeating.  _ Are you hurt _ ?

He couldn’t tell.

His entire left side was throbbing, but it felt distant. A whole other world away. All that he really took note of was how his skin felt like it was buzzing, and that time and everything around him didn’t feel quite real. He felt outside of himself. The kind of feeling one gets when they are really hurt.

He blinked a few times, looking for something familiar to latch onto. Before him, a few feet away, sat the suitcase. Completely inconspicuous. 

Harry tried to move towards it but hands held him back. They were talking to him, and he finally started to hear them. He was too flustered to think in French, to understand everything. They wanted to know what happened, something about hospital, but he just kept blinking.

“Louis?” He managed, not quite sure what he was asking, “Louis?”

“Qui? Louis?” The woman asked, turning to the others around them. Everyone was standing over Harry, making him feel impossibly small. 

It seemed like everyone was chanting Louis’ name, whispering among themselves, trying to figure out who Louis was, where he was.

And then all the hands that were on him, had been rubbing his back, had been pressed to his head without knowing it, disappeared. The crowd that had gathered became quiet. Like everyone had gone back to their day, happy to not have to worry about some strange English man causing a scene.

And there was Louis.

Louis’ hands came around Harry, grabbing his shoulders, looking at him with an expression of absolute worry.

“Are you okay?” Louis asked, “Oh God…”

Harry nodded, his head still dizzy. The pain starting to settle and take home in the side of his head.

“Look at you,” Louis sighed, slowly starting to pull Harry up, “You look terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t... do... anything,” Harry mumbled, mouth full of adrenaline. 

“I left you though. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Louis wrapped his arm around Harry's elbow and grabbed the still present suitcase, “No bag of clothes is worth you getting all cut up. Can you walk?”

Harry tried, taking a step forward. He managed. The adrenaline was still pumping through him. He just felt a little dizzy now. But looking down at his clothes, red blood had started to mix in with a pale brown dust of the street.

“We’ll sort out you out at the hotel, don’t worry,” Louis replied, noting the way Harry made a face at himself.

Harry made out a half smile and grabbed Louis’ arm. He squeezed,  _ take care of me. _

The walk to the hotel was short but arduous. Harry could walk, but each passing step brought him a little bit closer to Earth. Pain got a little closer. By the time they got there, to the cream brick building and red awning standing before them with the words  _ Le Flamant Blanc _ painted above in gold, Harry’s entire left side felt on fire. He hadn’t fallen like that since he was a kid, and he didn’t understand how it had happened. But one moment he was running, and the next he was bleeding. The glimpse of an eye.

He felt dumb. Stupid. Clumsy.

Louis reassured him he wasn’t. He got another Louis smile. A squeeze on the arm - the good arm.

They slowly made their way up the four steps into the entrance of the hotel, and then Louis immediately led Harry to one of the small cream and striped settees sitting under the window. He put him down, giving Harry one more squeeze and walked up to the desk.

Harry wasn’t sure what Louis had been saying at the desk, but moments later a bellhop almost ran over and took Harry’s suitcase. He didn’t say anything, but Harry said thanks nonetheless. And then Louis was back, the front desk manager in tow with a key in hand.

“We’re going to the top,” Louis said, offering Harry an arm.

He took it and followed the two men towards the lift. 

They all got in and the manager, Gabriel as his name tag said, pulled the cage door shut. The ride felt precarious, it always had in every lift Harry had been in, but he didn’t say anything. Embarrassment made his cheeks feel warm. He didn’t want to be known as the kind of man that fell so badly in the street. It felt like the scene he’d caused was still going on, everyone making a fuss over him.

Harry took his arm away from Louis’ and held onto the handrail, leaned against the wall.

They came to the very top floor, an impressive level five. The hallway showed more cream. Cream walls, creams floors, intricate patterns swirling over all of it.

They were staying in room 502, a presidential suite. 

“I hope it’s fancy enough for you,” Louis said as Gabriel opened the door for them, suitcase already inside.

“It’s more than enough,” Harry replied, looking back as Gabriel left the key next to the door and showed himself out, “I don’t need all this.”

The room was wide and airy, silky drapes surrounding large french doors to the balcony. The walls were cream, again, with shiny roses embossed all over. Against the wall to the left of the room sat one bed dressed with a red silky duvet, facing the warm glow of the windows. The room looked expensive, befitting of its name. Blood red settees lazed around the golden baroque coffee table in the middle of the room, a vase of red roses clotted together on top.

“It’s the least I can do. And don’t worry,” Louis walked over to Harry, “I’ve stayed here enough. I think I deserve to see the presidential suite by now. Just think of it as Gabe doing a favour.”

He took the suitcase and Harry’s arm. Harry let him. 

Louis led them to the bed, letting Harry sit down in his own time, and chucked the suitcase down next to Harry.

“Now, let’s see what we can change you into,” Louis said.

Harry looked down at himself, at the tears in his trouser knees, and the filth on his top. He could manage with his top half, just a wash, but his trousers weren’t going to see the light of another day without mending. He let out a small hum and watched Louis with his suitcase.

Louis unclasped the case and opened it, putting its contents on full display. Harry flung himself back onto the bed, rolling his eyes into the back of his head in disdain. 

This was the only thing worse than the pain in his side.

Louis started laughing as he peered into Harry’s suitcase. From it, five books stared up at him, separated only by a Mackintosh jacket and a pair of leather shoes. Nothing he needed in this very moment.

“Packing the essentials, then?” Louis joked, chuckling as he pulled everything out to see if anything of use was underneath the books. Only a paper bag of sweets and a black leather wallet lay below. At least he had some money.

“Ugh,” Harry said, rolling to his side to see the look of amusement on Louis’ face, “I packed my clothes in the other one.”

Louis laughed again. Giggled. Apparently Harry made for good entertainment when he was stupid and clumsy and bloody.

“I guess that gives us something to do tomorrow morning.”

Harry wanted to go and have a bath. Let warm water soak up his cuts and hug him. But he also just wanted to cry and he wanted to do it alone. So Harry went to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He leaned against the door, standing in complete silence. All he could hear were Louis’ footsteps outside. He was moving about, soft scuffing across the carpet. 

Harry stayed like that for a long moment, frozen, just listening.

A moment later, Louis’ footsteps moved across the room, walking past the bathroom door, and the hotel room door opened and closed. Harry was left with just the sound of his own steady heartbeat thudding against his chest. He wasn’t all that sure he wanted to be alone anymore.

Harry peeled his clothes from himself, burning the parts of him that were cut. When he was done, he turned and stood in front of the full length mirror. A chance to finally see what he’d done to himself.

The left side of his face had two long skinny threads of dried blood from eyebrow to clavicle, caressing his ear. He touched a finger to one of them, darkened blood crumbling away. Below that, his left shoulder looked like it had burned as he’d rolled across the concrete, a collection of parallel scratches curving across lithe muscles. 

His wrist and knees seemed to have taken the worst of it. Ugly constellations of juicy pink flesh peeked up at him, the edges looked like they’d been kissed with blood soaked lips. 

Harry stared at himself in the mirror, his body a sad canvas of his stupidness. The feeling of embarrassment came back, the lush flowers that dotted the wall tiles seemed to laugh at him,  _ look at all the fuss you’ve made for yourself _ . He was convinced he should never have told Louis about his privileged lifestyle, set himself up for Louis to think he had to take such care with Naive Harry. Protect him so much. Chase after thieves for him, upscale their hotel room for him, hold his arm for him. He must have thought Harry was so stuck up and feeble - not strong and sharp and aware like himself.

Harry cursed at himself when a tear escaped his eye. He shook his head and sniffed it away, taking a deep breath. He was forever the baby of the family, in all manners of the word. 

Turning away from the mirror, Harry turned the tap of the bathtub. Cold water splashed out, springing up at him. Shocking his skin. He couldn’t have heard the front door open again, Louis’ footsteps returning.

Eventually the bath was full and he dipped his toes in.

The water was warm, not too hot to burn his cuts, not too cold for the evening air. It hugged him as he sat down, wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his head on the peak of them.

A knock came at the door and Harry physically jumped, water splashing over the edge of the freestanding bath.

“Uh, yeah?” Harry called, unsure if he could be heard.

A muffled voice came through the door but Harry couldn’t understand it.

“Sorry?” He called again, and the door opened a crack.

The tip of Louis’ head popped through the doorway and he started again, “Are you okay? Are you hungry? Do you need any help?”

Harry shook his head, “No, thank you. I can deal with it myself.”

“Are you sure? I-”

“I’m okay.” Harry’s voice was hollow.

There was a short moment where Louis didn’t reply and the door didn’t move. Harry felt a bit frozen.

And then Louis opened the door wide and let himself in.

He walked over to Harry, an expression of concern on his face, “You’ve still got blood all over your face, come on.”

Harry quickly wiped his wet hands over the blood on the side of his face, trying to smear it away. Louis smiled empathetically and picked a face cloth from the vanity. 

Neither said anything as Louis sat on the edge of the bath and wiped Harry’s face. Louis didn’t seem to care or notice the water darkening the side of his trousers as soapy water lapped at them, his face curled with concentration as he wiped away. 

He eventually pulled away and rested the face cloth on the edge of the basin, “You’re okay, okay?”

Harry said nothing, showed a shallow half smile.

Louis gave one back, “What are you thinking?”

Harry considered the question and didn’t want to answer it. Louis was looking down at him so worried that it made Harry’s eyes prick. 

Harry turned his eyes back down to the water where his knees still hugged him.

“Nothing really. I just feel…” He drifted off.

“Mm?” Louis sat, patiently waiting a reply.

“Dumb. I guess.”

“Why?”

“Because… I’ve made everyone think I’m dumb, but I’m not. But I feel it. I’m not as precious as you think I am. I don’t need things like this hotel to make me feel at home. Or better. Or something. But I fell and made a horrible scene and now everyone thinks I’m some sort of posh idiot.”

“Well I wouldn’t call you posh,” Louis said as he winked. Tried to make him smile.

Harry let out of whiff of air through the tiniest of smiles and splashed the water a little, “I’m not an idiot either.” 

The Louis smile still had its charm even in a moment like this.

“I know,” Louis admitted, “I don’t think you are. Some kid just stole your suitcase and we tried to get it back, that’s all. These things happen. No one blames you, or thinks you’re an idiot,” He paused before continuing, trailing a finger through the water, “I’m sorry if the room is too much.”

“Its…” It wasn’t, in all honesty. The room didn’t matter, really. Harry was just self conscious of seeming like a snob, “It’s not. It’s lovely, and I’m thankful. I just don’t need things like this. I’d be happy to sleep anywhere. I’m not here for a holiday.”

Louis tittered to himself, “What if ‘anywhere’ has bed bugs?”

Finally smiling, Harry admitted, “Okay, you got me.” 

Harry felt like even more of an idiot now, having made such a big deal over himself. Having been so quickly cured by Louis’ cheek. He felt so obvious. Regular men didn’t get giddy when their friends joined them at the bath tub. They turned them away.

Harry shifted in the water, careful not to stretch out his legs, his heart jittering as he became more aware of his nudity.

There was a knock on the hotel room door and Louis sat up straight, smiling, “Tea!” 

Leaning over to the vanity, Louis plucked a towel for Harry. As he held it out for him, he paused, “Remember, you’re not a pain, okay?”

Harry just nodded and took the towel, waiting to Louis to leave before he actually stood up.

#    
  


When Harry appeared in the bathroom doorway, he was met with Louis handing over several francs to a slender black man. They were smiling at each other as they talked, and the man’s eyes unconsciously looked over at the shape at the bathroom door - Harry with just a towel around his waist. He suddenly took a sharp awkward bow, thanked Louis, and quickly left the room.

Louis turned to Harry and laughed a little, “God knows what he thinks we’ve been up to,” He nodded to Harry’s towel, “Ah well. Come and have some tea, then.”

Harry felt those butterflies again, completely baffled as to what to say to that. He felt more naked now than he had in the bath. Louis was so dangerous to be around. He tried to swallow whatever sound that wanted to jump out his throat and walked over to where Louis was placing plates of food across the bed. Of course.

“Here,” Louis waved to the spread, “A five course dinner in bed. Because  _ breakfast _ in bed is for twits,” He winked.

They sat on opposite sides of the bed, the food between them, amongst fat, tassled cushions. There were plates of mouillettes and eggs and croissants with cheeses and meats and fruit. Between those plates were creme brulee and tarte tatin and eclairs. Harry was overwhelmed with the food choices, unsure if they were having breakfast for dinner or jumping straight to dessert. It seemed Louis had a tendency to never half-arse anything.

“Interesting choices,’ Harry said, smiling at the array.

“The best choices,” Louis grinned, making a beeline for one of the croissants.

So they ate, the food going down in happy bites. It felt normal, like Louis wasn’t carrying the day’s events into the room. He’d left the embarrassing sight of Harry being blissfully unaware of little boy thieves around him, being spread out across the pavement all bloodied, being woefully upset in the bath, at the front door. Locked out. It was like he didn’t care for much more than Harry’s safety, and now that he was safe, he was happy again. The feeling was infectious, and Harry felt the few remaining feelings of self consciousness wash away with his sips of tea.

Harry thought to himself that this was okay. He was okay. It would all be okay. Louis was right.

Louis asked Harry questions about why he was so keen on creme brulee as he watched Harry crack the caramel top with his spoon and shovel away at the insides, which in turn started questions on what Harry’s favourite foods were. And soon they were talking until the night turned the room blue and Louis had to lean over and flick on a lamp.

The low light made the room feel soft and safe, and Harry started asking Louis questions back.

“What happened to the boy you chased?”

Louis looked up from his hard boiled egg, cold now, a mouillette left standing in its centre, “Oh. Uh, he jumped into a car and I lost him. Gone before I even got near him.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He pondered for a moment, “How did you know something would happen? It was like you just… knew.”

Louis was quiet for a moment, looking towards the city lights through the windows. He got up and closed the curtains.

“I’ve, uh, just traveled a lot. I just got a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

“Mm,” Louis said quietly as he came back to the bed and started clearing all the plates. Harry sat up properly to help but Louis flicked his hands away, “Harry, let’s not talk about today anymore, please.”

Harry lay back on the mountain of cushions and watched Louis. He didn’t seem angry or upset. Just tired, Harry supposed. It had been a long day, and perhaps Louis was just a bit past the thought of being swindled out of Harry’s belongings. Being one-upped. He smiled softly to Louis, and said ‘sorry’ in the way that said  _ I understand _ .

When Louis was finished and the plates had made a teetering stack on the coffee table, he stood over Harry swathed in the duvet, face nestled into the pillows. Crumbs had made their way into the edges of the rose shapes sewn into the fabric.

Louis sat on the edge of the bed and looked over at Harry’s decumbent body, towel still hanging on to him. He listlessly swatted away the crumbs.

Neither said anything. Harry had become tired, his body aching, eyes drooping. Sleep catching up to him. Looking through the tips of his eyelashes, he stared back up at Louis.

There was a comfortable quiet, only the sound of a ticking clock on the wall to divide the milliseconds that went by.

In this light, Louis’ eyes looked dark. Otherworldly. The sharp edges of his cheekbones cast shadows and he looked dangerous. No longer in the way that said run away, but  _ I dare you to come a little closer _ , Harry thought. Wanted to think. In this light it seemed easy to think that way.

Louis seemed to stare at Harry, thoughts indecipherable. Everything always so indecipherable about Louis. Harry never knew whether to run and hide, keep everything to himself, or try to open Louis up and finally find out everything there was to know.

“Who are you?” Harry let slip, voice almost drunken with drowsiness. 

Louis scoffed just the tiniest bit, looking away, but didn’t say anything.

Harry couldn’t tell if Louis’ ease with comments like this, with touching Harry, with the reveal of Da Vinci and Melzi’s relationship, or with Harry in the bathtub were quiet admissions or just Louis wanting to get where he needed to go. It was too late, too dark to tell if Louis was playing along to get Harry to lead him to treasure. Louis made Harry feel okay, made him turn his mood so quickly, and he wanted that to be real.

As they sat there in silence, Harry looking at Louis and Louis looking at Harry, it felt like there was a conversation going on between them. Harry asking Louis if this singular bed in a hotel room meant more than a place to sleep for the night, Louis asking Harry if he was being serious right now. Louis’ face was all sharp lines and nowhere to run. His expression was one of serious contemplation. And Harry wanted him to be contemplating sliding into bed, kissing his bruises, and letting this go somewhere Harry had fantasized about since he was eleven on that bicycle with his sister. Let this go to somewhere you can be yourself and be loved too.

Eventually, Louis’ adam’s apple bobbled up and down and he’d finished contemplating. He said so quietly, “I’ll sleep on the sofa. You should get a good rest.”

All too quickly, Harry mumbled, “I can share.”

Riddled with sleep, Harry searched for something to cover his tracks, “I mean… You’ve done so much already. This room is so much, you might as well enjoy it too. Please. I don’t want to be more of a pain than I already have today.”

Louis let out just a quiver of a smile and Harry held his breath until he replied, “Just. Don’t sleep naked.”

Harry laughed, saluted Louis lazily and slowly sat up. He looked around for his underwear, groggily remembering he’d left his clothes on the bathroom floor. In one sleepy trip Harry got up, went to the bathroom, put on his underwear and undershirt, and crawled back into bed. 

Louis had tossed Harry’s side of the pillows off and stacked himself upon those left on his side, Agatha Christie book back in his lap. 

The weight of Louis’ figure in the bed emanated warmth into Harry’s side and he fell asleep easily, soft light from the lamp still blowing kisses on Louis’ cheek.

A while later, when his eyes were finally tired and his mind sufficiently eased by his book, Louis turned to Harry to see if he was awake. 

He whispered Harry’s name and when he didn’t respond, soft steady breaths falling from his slack mouth, Louis smiled. 

Silently, Louis reached out a tentative hand and curved two fingers to brush a hair out of Harry’s eyes. As his fingers drifted from brow to the soft curve of jaw, Louis whispered aloud.

“You’re so much more than I hoped.”

And then he carefully turned and switched off the light.


	6. The Thief.

Monday 

June 17th, 1935.

Calais, France.

 

She had been sat in a car, a burgundy Rolls-Royce Phantom, waiting. She kept the windows up so that no one would see her tapping gloved fingers along the steering wheel. She’d only been waiting here five minutes and she knew she wouldn’t have to wait long, but that didn’t stop her impatient tack-tack-tacking. 

She needed this to work perfectly.

In the distance, down the busy cobbled road, she could see her two boys standing together in a doorway, right in position. But they were talking to each other and too often looking up at her sat there in her car.

She urged someone to rush through that door and right into them, so that they might pull their heads in and pay more attention to the job at hand. Not her. 

She bore her eyes into them, hoping they got the message.

The taller one, Sacha, made eye contact with her and immediately looked the other way, down the street. He stayed like that for a minute, searching, and then flicked the smaller boy on the arm.

They started to move down the street, walking lightly between people, and her eyes followed them. There, a long way down the street, she could just see the heads of two brunette men walking her way.

Her two boys had walked past the men, and were now snaking them from behind - just as discussed. They were following them by a short distance, keeping the space between them casual and unassuming. 

She watched as the two men walked in silence, and her eyes drifted over the tall one, his face open and bright and totally unaware, to the shorter one. He walked with a slow meaning, taking in everything around him, clearly looking out. He looked around the street, eyes scanning the faces of everyone around them, before looking up the street where they were going. For a split second, his eyes caught hers, luckily shielded by thick black sunglasses. He seemed to hold her gaze for a moment and she couldn’t look away. 

The man stopped in his tracks, and she quickly shifted her head out to look out her side window, away from him. She readjusted the scarf that hung around her face, tucking a hair back into it.

She wanted to go already, move away from here. Excitement and apprehension buzzed along her skin. She gripped the steering wheel to control herself, appear calm, and dared a look back.

Sacha had pulled a suitcase from them and was running up the street to her. Time to go. 

She couldn’t help but rev the engine ceremoniously as she swung the car around to face the opposite direction, ready to fly out of there. Her foot was pressed hard against the clutch, ready to tear it back when Sacha got to her.

He was bolting so quickly up the street, and she was thankful for picking out a boy with the sinewy build of a street rat. Someone used to running.

She flicked her eyes to the other boy, Raphael, as he followed behind the other man. 

Both Raphael and the other man were running, the man chasing after the other two, and Raphael chasing after him. Stalking him.

She could see as the man had cornered himself, stuck on the busy sidewalk as cars swooped by. And she could see as Raphael reached out his grimy hands to snatch his suitcase too. 

He latched onto it just as the man had tried to slip through, and she’d just begun to smile when the passenger door of her Rolls-Royce swung open. Too sharply on its precious hinges. She’d have a word about that later.

For now, she jumped into action, and shoved her foot down on the accelerator. 

Next to her, Sacha lay in a panting heap, legs crushed up against the dashboard, suitcase tucked in between. 

As she sped up the street, a car honking at her, she looked back in the rear view mirror again and saw the shorter man watching her drive away. His hands on his hips, panting, cursing.

Just as quickly as she had looked back, she turned her eyes back to the road ahead and drove.

  
  
  
  


Later that evening, when the sun had finally begun to sunk into the ocean, she lay on her hotel bed picking grapes off their vines. She played Beethoven over the phonograph that sat at the opposite end of the room, humming along to the swoops in the music. She was attempting to relax herself, feel in control.

At her feet lay an empty suitcase, its contents strewn around the bed and floor. Men’s trousers and polos lay lifelessly before her.

The low hum of her anger had since passed, and now she lay waiting for the boys to show up with the second suitcase - her second chance to find what she was looking for. 

Eventually, as she’d moved on to painting her nails, the knock at the door finally came.

She gracefully swooped off the bed, petting down the creases in her silk dressing gown, and walked to the door.

When she opened it, she was met with both boys staring up at her. Sacha was as tall as her chin, blocking Raphael from view as he hid behind him.

“Where is it?” She spoke in French, emotionless.

“He couldn’t get it,” Sacha said, shifting his body to protect Raphael. She saw right through him.

“Why?” She asked, and when the boys didn’t answer she took a step forward and brushed Sacha to the side, the back of her hand a cold force against his shoulder. He pushed back, tried to make himself bigger - as tall as her. Even in shoes, his hair wouldn’t even brush the skin of her lip.

“What happened?” She asked through her teeth. Her eyes were leering, and the two boys shifted further back into the hallway.

She grabbed the collar of Raphael’s shirt and pulled him back towards to the door, into her room. Sticky patches of red clung to his shirt where her wet nails pressed paint into them. As she pulled, words finally came spilling from Sacha’s lips, “The man fell, too many people were looking, please, there was a crowd looking, please leave him.”

And then she shut the door on him. 

The last thing he saw was her hair, a flash of burnt orange, blowing in the wind of the door closing.


	7. The Red.

Tuesday 

June 18th, 1935.

Calais, France.

 

When Harry finally woke, the room was drenched in warm sunlight. The curtains were open and the bed lay in a bright square of warmth. He kicked his legs out from the duvet, fresh air rolling around his ankles, and tried to open his eyes.

His body was a little stiff, sore still where he’d hit the ground, but his main grievance was the sun that cast his eyelids red. Blinking his eyes a few times, Harry eventually found himself staring up at the ceiling. It was just as creamy as the walls, with fine floral carvings surrounding the light fixtures. 

So Harry rolled over, expecting to find Louis there still. 

When he wasn’t, and there was only a dishevelled swathe of blankets, he blinked a few more times. The night before had felt like a drunken dream, full of affectionate lullabies. The thought of Louis’ side pressed into Harry’s felt like something he’d just made up. 

Harry looked around the room for Louis, checking he was still real. The dinner plates from the night before were still there, stacked quietly on the coffee table, the smallest hint that Harry hadn’t dreamt up everything. He continued looking around, eyes dragging over every inch of the room, and it wasn’t until he braved the bright glow of the windows that he finally saw him.

The french doors were open, and the ocean breeze was making the lace curtains breathe in and out. With each breath, Louis’ back came into view, his white shirt aglow the sun.

Harry wanted to go over to Louis, wrap his arms around him, kiss his cheek. He wanted his warm weight to be back against him. A day earlier Harry would have hoped Louis wouldn’t be awkward about the night before, about Harry basically begging him to share a bed, but he had since learned that Louis didn’t do awkward. He seemed to simply take Harry in his stride.

With a slight groan, Harry sat up and rubbed his eyes. The sun had mellowed and he could now tolerate being in the morning light. 

He looked down at himself, at his cuts and bruises. They weren’t terrible now, scabs already forming and pulling the skin of his knees tight. Harry touched a finger to his brow. Thankfully the raised scab was tucked underneath his brow hairs. He stood, fingers still lingering on his brow, and walked outside.

 

“Morning,” Harry said as he stepped out onto the balcony. The air was fresh, salty. He could taste the day on his lip.

Louis shifted in his seat to look back at him, cigarette smoke floating away to show a welcoming smile on his face, “Morning poppet, finally decided to join the rest of the world?”

Louis chuckled to himself at the sight of Harry’s dishevelled face, hair at all angles. Where he’d been lazing with one leg up on the chair opposite him, Louis moved to let Harry take a seat. He tapped his cigarette to the edge of an ashtray in the middle of the table. Around it sat a plate of filled croissants and a fine china tea set.

“What time is it?” Harry asked, settling into his chair and taking one of the croissants. 

“Nearly eleven,” Louis replied, taking another puff.

Harry had to lean far back in his chair to take that in, his mouth half full, “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’m actually glad you slept in till I got back,” Louis grinned, before standing and almost skipping inside. He popped back out, grin still as bright as the sun, and showed off several glossy shopping bags, “I made the most of the morning.”

Louis put the bags, all five, at Harry’s feet. He sat back down, entirely pleased with himself, “Thought you could do with some new clothes after yesterday.”

“Oh,” Harry mustered, taken aback. He wasn’t sure if he should open the bags right then or if it would be more polite to do it later, but Louis motioned for him to get a move on.

Harry plucked a black bag from the lot first. The bag was the smallest and tufts of white tissue paper burst from it. From it, he pulled out exactly three pairs of socks and three pairs of underwear. Immediately, his cheeks burned and he regretted having picked this bag first. For a split second he cursed Louis for not having stopped him before Harry was sat looking down at them, trying his best not to imagine Louis picking these out.

“Uh...” Harry started, completely at a loss as to how to react. 

Louis laughed wide enough to show his entire top row of teeth, “Necessities!” He exclaimed, “Tell me you don’t need them, huh?”

Harry let out a coy smile, and moved on.

From three of the bags, he pulled out more items of clothing. A pair of cream shorts, a while polo, and a brown leather belt. A soft green jumper, and then a pair of tan trousers. He didn’t know what to do with himself except to keep thanking Louis and saying he didn’t need to do this. To which Louis would keep saying that he wanted to and that Harry needed the clothes and it was his fault he’d lost Harry’s things to begin with.

The very last bag was the biggest, but not very heavy. Harry sat it in his lap and pushed the tissue paper apart. In it was a leather bag, a satchel, almost an exact replica of Louis’ but a little darker and glossier and stiffer. Not yet worn in. It looked expensive.

Harry had absolutely no idea what to do or say now. He could only look up at Louis who was looking back at him with a self satisfied grin across his face.

“I don’t know what to say,” Harry finally said in a quieter voice, “This is too much. I- I can pay you back. Please. It’s so lovely. Let me pay you back.”

Louis feigned thinking for a minute before saying, in a jovial tone, “Hm. No. Definitely not.”

  
  
  
  
  


When Harry came back from the bathroom, fully dressed in his new shorts and polo and finding that they miraculously fit perfectly, Louis was sitting on the edge of the bed expectantly.

“Perfect!” Louis beamed as Harry stepped out.

“It is,” Harry agreed, patting down his shirt happily, “But, how do you travel with so little clothing? What if we go swimming or need to go somewhere fancy?”

“Do you plan on going somewhere fancy?” Louis asked, stepping up and walking over to Harry.

“Well, no. I don’t know. But that’s the point, I guess.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mr. Harry,” Louis said, coming right up to Harry and fixing his collar, brushing his shoulders, “You can buy things as you need, instead of packing your entire wardrobe, when you travel.”

Harry huffed out a little air, a hint of a laugh. Louis was so close to him.

Louis smiled up at Harry and then glanced at the clock on the wall behind his head. He shifted, but didn’t step away from Harry, “We should go and catch a train. Come on.”

And then finally, and Harry could have sworn with some hesitation, Louis took a step back and walked to the door. He stood waiting, bag already packed, as Harry threw what he thought were sensible choices into his new bag.

His old suitcase sat sad and half empty as Harry packed just two books, his trousers and underwear into his satchel. His passport and money went into a smaller pocket that lined the inside, protected. He made a mental note to actually read a bit while he was abroad - not lose his real life in the sweep of this little trip. Stay on track with his studies. Though the idea of reading an entire book seemed like a chore right now, not the respite it had always been.

 

Harry and Louis made their way down the front steps of the hotel. They were almost hopping, minds back on where they were going. They’d catch a taxi to the train station and spend the night in a sleeping car so that they could wake to the sight of Milan’s intricate buildings the next morning. 

A black taxicab waited at the curb, already called, with the driver standing to attention at the passenger door. 

Harry’s left foot had only just touched the pavement, courteous smile already moving into action, when a small boy popped up in front of them.

Harry tripped in his tracks and another boy cropped up next to the first one. They both had begging faces, arms extended into little prayers.

“Excuse me, Sir,” The tall one said in English, a thick French accent coating his words, “You have some change?”

Harry was unsure of what to do. The boys were both small and slight. They looked younger than they probably were, cheeks hollow and eyes too sharp. The smaller boy had a bruise across one side of his face, a swipe of purple and yellow from ear to eye. He looked like he needed money, and food, and someone to take care of him.

“Oh, yes. Sure.” Harry said instinctively. A small bit of change wouldn’t hurt, and after having not spent a dime this entire trip so far, Harry was happy to help.

Harry dipped into the inner pocket of his new bag. As he did, Louis grabbed his arm.

“Hang on a minute,” He said, pulling slightly on Harry’s arm as he stood between the boys and him.

He pointed at the taller boy and said, “You’re the one who robbed us yesterday.”

Harry looked at the boy, took in the shape of his shoulders and tried to match them up with the kid that had run off the day before.

The boy took a step back, shaking his head, “Oh no. No, sir. Not me.”

“Yes, you,” Louis said, standing tall, “Where’d you take it, huh?”

Harry tugged on his arm, not wanting to cause another scene. The taxi driver seemed to hover, unsure of what to do either. His arm was half out-reached as if to grab the collar of the boys, but it didn’t quite get there.

“Nowhere,” The boy replied. His eyes unconsciously shifted upwards, to one of the windows of the hotel they’d stayed the night at. Both Harry and Louis followed his eyes up. On the third floor, a curtain seemed to quickly shift closed.

Harry’s skin went a touch cold.

“Who has it?” Louis asked, his voice lower and darker.

“I… I don’t know what you are talking about,” The boy said, grabbing the arm of the younger boy and taking a step backwards. They seemed even smaller now.

“Brought a friend to take the rest of our stuff?” Louis took a step forward.

Harry took a step forward with him, and tugged on Louis’ arm harder. 

“Louis,” Harry said, voice trying to sound like a warning, “It’s fine.”

Louis looked back at him, eyes dark, and Harry forced words out, “Look at them. They clearly need some money. It’s fine, please.”

Harry started pulling out coins from his bag, forcefully placing them in the boys’ palms as he started pushing Louis to the curb.

Harry kept talking to try and keep Louis from saying anything else as he walked them to the taxi, “Go and get some food or something, please, eat something. I’m sorry, please go.”

The taxi driver said nothing as he held the door open for them and they shuffled in, Harry giving their destination. Louis said nothing either, eyes fixed on the window the boys had looked up at.

When the car started to finally move, pulling out from the curb, Louis finally turned and looked to Harry. His face was taut, his high cheek bones turned to harsh lines.

He didn’t say anything.

As the taxi drove up the street, bumping over cobblestones, Louis turned to look out the back window. He stayed there. Watching out.

Harry looked too, though nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Pedestrians lined the streets and cars drove by. A red car was behind them, but that didn’t seem strange - seeing as they were driving along a busy street.

“Turn left up here,” Louis said, eyes flicking to the driver in the rear view mirror. His voice meant business and the driver didn’t reply. Just nodded his head dutifully.

The taxi turned and Louis looked back.

The red car was still there, humming along.

“Take the next left again,” Louis said, voice more sharp.

Harry couldn’t help but sit in silence, watch as this unfolded.

They took the next street and Louis kept watching, eyes just little black dots now. The red car was still there.

“Another left.”

They turned.

The red car was still there.

“One more,” Louis said.

The car turned and they were back on the street they had started on, their hotel waving them by. They’d made a complete circle and surely no regular car would make that journey too.

Both Harry and Louis looked in the rear window in unison. The car was still there, trailing behind by 50 metres. Too far to see the face of the driver.

“Harry, please don’t be scared,” Louis’ voice lowered, “But I think we’re being followed.”

Harry couldn’t say anything. He knew it already. He felt frozen.

Louis looked straight ahead, eyes dancing around in space. His voice was low and dark, “I… a plan. A plan. Shit.” 

And then, like a flash, he sat up straight. His hands flew to catch on the seat in front of him, “Don’t drive to the station. Go North. Keep going till I say. I’ll pay you more than enough.”

The driver must have been happy to have a bigger paycheck because he didn’t ask questions, didn’t refuse, didn’t make them get out of the car right then. Instead, he gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and seemed to gulp, but kept driving.

Louis swerved to look at Harry, “Okay. Harry. Listen to me.”

“Wha-”

“No questions. You’re going to jump out the door,” His voice was so sharp. Focused. Hard.

“I’m-”

“When I say jump, open the door and jump. Okay. Don’t wait. Go as soon as I say. And hide. I’ll come back for you once I lose them.”

“Um.”

“Don’t wait. Jump.”

Harry let out a short nod, and felt the same weight of Louis’ voice as the driver because he too gripped his bag a little tighter and gulped. 

The seconds seemed to slow. 

Everything came to a standstill. 

Harry sat completely frozen in his corner of the car. 

He watched as Louis’ head turned away from him and back to where the taxi was headed. Time suddenly felt so slow that he could see the way Louis’ hair glided across his neck just long enough to see the jagged edge of a scar behind his ear. A millisecond later it was gone, and Louis was telling the driver where to go.

Harry felt both heavy and weightless. Like he couldn’t move, but if he did he’d float away into sky. His legs felt strange. Leaden. Not real.

Nothing felt real.

The car made several turns, and the streets became less busy. Skinnier.

And Louis’ voice cut through the blaring sirens in Harry’s head, “Around that corner, go. Okay?”

Harry stared at Louis.

“Okay?” Louis’ voice was almost shrill.

“Uh, Okay.” Harry managed to let out, his voice tiny. Hollow.

Louis reached across Harry and held his hands on the door handle, fingers white around it. Harry turned to face the door and suddenly everything was too fast. The car was too fast and buildings felt like they were blurring past. 

Harry didn’t know if he could do this.

The corner was coming up, far too quickly. The street corner turned into what felt like an alley, slim and dark. It was like Harry was being propelled towards a black hole, unable to escape.

The car turned and Harry lurched with it, falling into Louis’ arm. But Louis’ arm was pushing against the door, and then pushing against Harry, and he was yelling, “Go!”

Harry fell out of the car, rolling as far as he could so he wouldn’t get run over by the back wheel. It wasn’t going that fast around the corner, having slowed to accommodate Harry’s tumble, but it still felt too fast to fling himself from.

The scabs on his knees tore as they rubbed across the pavement stones. The car immediately shut its door and sped away and Harry finally scrambled up. There was nowhere to go, and no time to look for somewhere proper to hide - not in the seconds it would take the red car to speed around that corner. So Harry threw himself backwards into the side of the building behind him, thrusting himself into the nook of the doorway in it. Harry squeezed himself into it as far as he could so that only the tip of his shoulder peaked out from it. He gripped his satchel into his chest so hard that if it were a person, he could have killed it.

Harry watched as Louis and the taxi sped up the street and turned at the end.

He felt the second car before he saw it, wind blowing all his hair up as it flew around the corner and turned in the same direction as the taxi.

The street turned quiet.

Harry’s heart was thudding against his chest so loud he could hear it.

He’d done it. Survived.

And now he was alone in a darkened street, with nowhere to go. No one to run to. No one to hug him and tell him things would turn out alright. 

One by one, he pulled his fingers away from his satchel. His knuckles ached from clenching so hard, but he was starting to get used to being sore. He forced himself to breathe out, having only just realised he’d been holding it since he’d jumped.

Tentatively, Harry took a step out of the doorway and down onto the pavement. He looked up the street, where the cars had driven off, and a man was putting rubbish in a bin, whistling. So ordinary. So blissfully unaware.

“Okay,” Harry said to himself, “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

He tried to not think about whether Louis was.

Harry needed to find somewhere to go, somewhere safe but where Louis could find him. He didn’t want to go too far and get lost. Or get caught by the wrong person.

He took a few steps back the way they’d come, out to where the alley opened up to a proper street. The sunlight had washed the bricks on this street gold, and it looked like real life again. Somewhere where ordinary things happened. Where people ate breakfast and went to work and kissed their children goodnight. Not the thing of films at the pictures or stories in books.

It soothed Harry’s heart a little.

He stepped out into the sunlight and looked up and down the street. He still couldn’t think however, couldn’t come up with a plan, so he just started walking.

He went left, and followed the pavement as it curved past building after building after building. 

Each car that drove past made Harry jump a little, so he’d walk as close to the buildings - as far from the road as possible. His shoulder almost knocked every window pane. When a red car went past, Harry froze until it got close to him. A family was in it, laughing together and not looking in his direction. 

He stood still, watching it as it happily drove past.

He was almost at the end of the street, when Harry finally asked himself why he was walking. Where to. He needed to stop and actually think this through, think of what Louis would do or want him to do.

He looked around and saw a bench across the road. His mind was still fuzzy, but sitting down felt like it had the same risk as walking and Harry didn’t want to wander too far and lose Louis for good. So he looked up and down the street and when there was a clearing of traffic, he quickly hobbled across the street to the other side.

Harry was about to sit down on the bench, it’s wood panes warm and splintered, when he noticed a boy sitting cross legged on the ground just up the street from him. 

Harry watched him as he sat down, legs feeling like they might finally give out under him. The boy was scraggly, clothes dirty and hanging from him. He had a mop of brown hair and was keeping his face low as he bit into a piece of hardened bread.

A woman yelled out her window somewhere behind Harry and the boy looked up, searching for the sound. Their eyes locked and Harry saw the bruise swiped across his face.

It was the smaller boy from the pair that he’d given money to earlier. That had apparently robbed them.

The boy stayed staring at Harry, the bread in his hands frozen mid-air. 

Harry stared back. 

The boy looked unsure, worried even. His gaunt features hung on him like his clothes.

Harry got up and tentatively walked over to him, testing like one would with a wild animal. 

The boy stayed where he was, curling his knees up to him a little closer.

Harry put his arms up in a small surrender, trying to tell the boy he wasn’t going to hurt him. When he got to the boy, now looking even tinier, Harry squatted next to him.

“What’s your name?” Harry asked gently in French.

The boy didn’t answer.

“I won’t hurt you,” Harry offered a warm smile.

The boy blinked and eventually let out a shy, “Raphael.”

“Raphael,” Harry repeated thoughtfully, “I’m Harry. How’s your food?”

Another tedious silence before Raphael finally answered, “Fine.”

Harry looked at the bread, its crust was so hard that pieces had crumbled away and fallen to Raphael’s lap.

“It looks delicious,” Harry tried. He kept his tone jovial, kind.

Raphael made a face like he was crazy and Harry laughed. The boy smiled at that. 

Harry sat down next to him, wall against both their backs.

“Can I ask you a question, Raphael?” Harry asked.

He didn’t reply. Harry tried to take that as a yes.

“Who did that to you?” He pointed at the mark across the boy’s face.

Raphael drew a finger to the bruise, wincing as he felt it. He didn’t say anything.

“Was it a bad man?”

The boy shook his head.

“Was it... a good man?” Harry asked, skeptical.

The boy shook his head, “It wasn’t a man.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He offered another small smile, trying to keep all his thoughts to himself, “A woman?”

Raphael nodded.

“What happened?”

The boy looked up at Harry. His eyes like wet moons, wide and too fragile for the world he’d found himself in. It was like Harry was looking at himself.

“It’s okay,” Harry said, his voice a little quieter.

The boy was silent, and it pulled at Harry’s heart strings. He didn’t seem like the kind of kid that wanted to steal from others. He seemed like he was scared of everything, always hiding. 

Raphael picked at the bread.

Harry sat in silence, looking at his feet. He didn’t know what to say, how to help, how to tell this boy that not everyone in this world was out to get him, how to tell him that he didn’t have to steal to survive. Harry could help him.

Harry was about to tell Raphael that he could take him to get some real food when the kid finally started talking, voice timid, “She was going to pay us to get your bags. My brother said I needed to help so I tried. But I couldn’t. There were too many people.”

Harry stayed silent, urging him to keep talking.

“She wasn’t happy and....” He paused, holding his breath, “She hurt me. We tried again this morning but that man…”

Raphael trailed off, a tear springing from his eye.

“My brother went with her. I don’t know where they have gone,” His voice was scared.

“What is her name? Do you know?”

Raphael shook his head, looking off as he thought for a moment. He looked back at Harry before continuing, voice no more than a whisper.

“She is English and has orange hair. That is all I know.”

“Oh,” was all Harry could say, his thoughts flashing back to the woman on the ferry. The woman that Louis so conveniently, and thankfully Harry thought, interrupted. His thoughts went away from him, trying to remember the lines of her face, the way she held herself. But her face was a blur, a mere few seconds of his life. He’d been so distracted by Louis that he had forgotten the strangers they’d met along the way. He could only piece together that she had seemed nice, and the only redhead they’d been in contact with over the past few days.

“Sorry,” Raphael said, interrupting Harry’s thoughts.

Harry shook his head, smiling, “Oh, no! It’s fine, you’re fine. You just got me thinking is all - trying to think of who she might be.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m not sure, but there’s not too many redheads around so I’ll have to keep a look out for you.”

Raphael was silent. There was a long, thoughtful, pause between them.

“You know,” Harry said, “You don’t need to be around people like that, Raphael. You can-“

Raphael interrupted, “We have to get money to eat. We have to stick together to survive,” His voice was mechanical, like he was repeating things his brother had said to him.

“I can help, we can find somewhere for you and your brother. Somewhere safe,” Harry replied.

“We have to stick together,” Raphael repeated, voice a little harsher. Sadder.

Raphael stood from his seat on the ground, looking up and down the street anxiously before turning back to Harry, “We have to stick together but I don’t know where he is. He said we’d stick together.”

Raphael’s voice caught in his throat and it sounded like he might cry.

Harry stood up himself and followed Raphael as paced in circles. He reached out to hold Raphael’s arm, steady him. Raphael flinched and pulled away, staring up at Harry with damp saucepan eyes. His nostrils flared as he held back tears.

“Hey… Hey… We can find him. My friend is coming bac-“

At that moment, a voice yelled out to Harry. It was sharp and familiar. Northern.

“Oi! Harry!” It called.

Harry whipped back and there was Louis, driving towards them. He was in a different car now, forest green, and in the driver’s seat. His arm vigorously waving out the window.

Louis pulled over next to them, and flung open the passenger door. He continued to wave Harry towards him, “I’ve lost them for now, come on! Get in!”

Harry turned back to Raphael as he started moving towards the car, “Come with us, we’ll find you somewhere safe.”

Raphael stayed where he was, light on his antsy feet, “My brother.”

“We’ll find him.”

“We need to stick together,” He repeated, “I can’t leave him.”

“We’ll look for him together,” Harry said, voice pleading as he sat into the seat of the car. He kept an arm extended for Raphael to take. He wanted to get away from here fast, but he wanted to help. He didn’t want to see this boy, barely ten or eleven, stuck on the same streets as this red headed woman.

Raphael just repeated himself, almost silently now, “We need to stick together.”

“Please,” Harry kept his arm extended, fingers open wide in desperation. Louis was making little  _ come on _ noises as he tapped on the steering wheel.

Raphael stood there, staring at Harry’s outreached arm. Harry couldn’t tell if time was slowing down again or if Raphael was just taking so long to think. It felt like an age before the boy looked up at Harry’s face and finally seemed to understand that these people that he’d robbed might be the ticket to salvation. Or his brother.

Raphael moved towards Harry, hesitantly crossing the three steps to the car, and reached out his own hand for Harry to take. Though he carried himself like a lamb to slaughter. 

His hand was moving up to Harry’s, nearly there. A breath’s width away. Harry could feel the warmth glow from his fingertips, and then the lightest touch of fingerprint to palm, and then Harry flinched.

A loud bang had gone off. Harry squeezed his eyes shut as he jumped from the ferocity of the sound, like a bomb in his ear. A millisecond later, he opened his eyes again.

Raphael’s hand was gone.

Blood was splattered all up Harry’s arm.

His palm was lacquered in red.

In front of him, Raphael was falling to the ground. His eyes were glassy, gone to nowhere. There was red all over him. Harry couldn’t take it in. He was a blurry vision of Cupid, small and sweet but shot in his own back an arrow. 

A bullet. 

Red everywhere.

Raphael hit the ground but Harry couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear anything. Felt like he couldn’t see anything. Not the people screaming in the street or the way Louis was pulling away from the curb to speed away. Harry could only see Raphael’s sick, still body disappear from the open door as they drove away.

“Fuck!” Louis screamed, “Close the door! Close it!” Louis yelled until Harry finally heard him.

Louis swerved around a corner and the door came swinging back at Harry, closing itself with the force. He reached out a hand to latch onto it, keep it closed. Hold on for dear life. Harry’s hand slid against the handle, dripping in blood. He had to hold so tight his knuckles turned white amidst the blood, like bones in meat. 

Harry felt ice cold. Like deadweight. He could feel his blood pulsing through his neck and he wanted to throw up. The sight of Raphael’s clavicle splitting open was seared into his brain, every time he blinked the picture would imprint itself over his eyelids. 

The car lurched around, spinning Harry in circles as he tried to get a grip on reality. 

“Hold on!” Louis yelled, and the car took another sharp turn, throwing Harry back into the door.

Another loud bang shot out, sparks plinking against the back of their car. Harry ducked at the sound, the picture of Raphael flashing in his mind. They swerved again, Harry unsure if they were turning corners or dodging traffic. He couldn't take in what was happening. All he knew was that he was spinning, the car was spinning, and Louis’ arm reached out to squeeze his leg.

“Harry,” Louis said, voice sharp as a knife, “We’ll get out of this. I’ll get rid of them.”

Harry looked down at the hand on his leg and moved his own hand to squeeze onto it and hold on to Louis like that might help.

But Louis’ hand moved back to the steering wheel and Harry left red fingerprints against the hairs of his own leg.

Another loud bang shot out, another plink of metal on metal. Harry ducked down into his seat, squeezed his eyes shut and then looked over at Louis, try to pull himself back to Earth. Focus. Survive.

Louis was leaning over the steering wheel, eyes focused forward. When they’d turn a corner, he’d throw his whole body into it, wrenching the wheel with him so the car felt like it was teetering on its edges.

Another bang, another plink. Harry looked back, daring himself to look over the edge of their seats. Twenty metres behind them, the red car from earlier was chasing after them. It too was teetering on its wheels, swinging around corners to stay up with them. He caught eyes with the driver, a woman, and quickly ducked back down. Scared for her to have seen his face, as if she hadn’t already.

“I can’t get any distance on them, fuck!” Louis swore, “Harry I’m gonna need your help.”

Harry tried to listen, focus his ears on anything but the screech of yelling outside and tires on pavement. 

“Yeah?” He managed to get out, slippery fingernails cutting into his seat.

“Go into my bag-” The car lurched, Harry slammed into the side of the car- “There’s a gun.”

They swerved the other way, and Harry’s stomach felt sick. He didn’t want anything to do with more guns.

“I can’t,” Harry said, pushing himself into the back of the seat. Trying to stay upright. A car slammed their horn as Harry and Louis flew past. Then their side mirror squealed as it dragged along another car before breaking off and falling back into the red car behind them.

“You need to shoot at them, get them to back off,” Was all Louis replied.

“I can’t,” Harry said again, voice more shrill. He felt like he was losing control of himself. Like a deer in headlights, nowhere to run.

“You can.”

Harry had nothing else to do. He couldn’t think of another plan. Couldn’t think at all. He wanted to cry, to escape, to get far far away from this place. Go back home to the safe and quiet. But he couldn’t just escape this car and live to tell the tale.

So, hand shaking, Harry wiped as much blood as he could onto his leg and slowly reached to Louis’ side. He was wearing his satchel still, tucked under his ribs. 

Harry managed to reach a shaking finger to the edge of the bag and then dig his hand under the flap. Louis turned the steering and jammed his elbow into Harry’s wrist, making him wince in pain.

“Sorry!” Louis cried as the car spun and Harry was thrown towards Louis’ side. Harry’s other arm reached out to Louis’ leg to stop himself flying into him full force.

Harry steadied himself, and dug around in the bag. He looked for something cold, hard, and the shape of death.

There, at the bottom, under a small book, Harry caught onto it. He pulled it out, throwing himself back into his corner of the car. Trying to stay as small as possible. Not get shot at himself.

It was in a holster, metal edges poking out, and Harry pulled it out by the handle. His hand was shaking hard now, and he could barely keep a grasp of it.

The revolver felt heavy in his hand.

Still in the holster were four bullets lining the outside. Harry took them and tried to shove them into the gun. But his hands were still shaking. He dropped two to his feet.

The other two made their way in, just.

Harry pushed the barrel back into place and shakily drew his hand out the side window. 

He only looked for a second before holding his breath and taking a shot.

The gun clicked, an empty round.

Harry shot again. 

Another empty round.

Harry pulled back the hammer on the back of the gun one more time, almost accepting another blank round.

He pulled the trigger.

The gun shot off and kicked back at him, almost blasting out of his hands completely. The sound was impossibly loud, louder than he was expecting. It sounded so much scarier than the few times he’d shot a rifle while out with his brothers hunting.

Harry couldn’t tell where the bullet had gone, if he’d hit the car behind them or sent it flying into some unwilling civilian. He couldn’t check to see, the side mirror having been torn off minutes earlier.

“Yes!” Louis yelled, “They’ve pulled back!”

And then a bullet came flying back at them, smashing the glass of their rear window and hitting the roof of the car at the rearview mirror. 

They both ducked and Louis took the nearest corner.

Around the corner, the red car came into view again. It was following them, but it wasn’t as close. Like it was now daring Harry to keep shooting until he was out of bullets. 

Harry took a glance out the window at them, hoping to not get his head blown off. He reached the gun out again and shot his last bullet. He was holding on tighter this time, the kickback only shocking his wrist a little.

He let out his breath when he heard the clink of bullet against car behind them. Metallic and sharp, but quieter than the ones before.

Louis pulled further away from the car, making nice distance between them.

The swerving of the car seemed a little less severe, but maybe Harry was just a little more alert. A little more in control of himself. He held onto the door and the seat next to him, trying to figure out if he could scour for the bullets on the ground.

Trees and fences and cars zipped past them, a blur of beiges and greens and blacks. Harry could hear the sound of sirens now.

“Up here-” Louis said, never finishing his sentence. They were coming up to an intersection, houses lined up in front of them. Tall fences and gates along them.

Louis sped up, making Harry’s stomach hit the bullets on the floor as the end of the street sprang up at them.

“Hold on,” Louis said, his voice still shrill but with a touch of dare. Triumph.

Louis spun the wheel right as hard as he could, lurching the entire weight of the car left as it turned. The back tyres spun out a little, slipping on the ground. 

They squealed. 

Harry’s sticky hands held on as tightly as he held his breath.

The car hurled itself around the corner, almost in slow motion, and kept turning even as the street up ahead came into view. The road was in front of them, and then the line of fences were in from of them and then a gate was.

At the very last second, Louis spun the steering wheel back left and the car straightened up. It seemed to shiver under them, tyres still skittering on the road.

They bumped over the curb and found themselves flying into the open gate of someone’s property.

Louis slammed on the brakes, pulling on the handbrake too. They both flung forwards inside the car, Harry’s chest flying into the dashboard. The gun disappeared as he threw out his arms to brace himself, hitting the leather glove box.

The car came to a quivering halt.

The sound of the red car sped right past them, down the street they should have headed down. There was a short flash of red, the whirling sound of an engine, and then it was quiet.

Harry could still hear the sirens, but they were distant. He could hear the sound of birds over them. He looked to Louis who was smiling out the front window.

Harry followed his eyes to look out.

In front of them was an elderly woman, hunched over a bed of flowers, staring up at them in complete confusion. She was wordless as to why this car had thrown itself past the tall gate and into her front garden. She just simply sat there, staring, speechless.

Louis let out a small chuckle and looked over at Harry. Harry gave back a wavering smile.

Then Louis put the car into reverse and slowly backed out of this poor woman’s garden. It bumped over tree roots and clumps of squashed flowers, and then back out the gate.

Louis raised a hand in apology but didn’t say anything. Just kept backing away.

Back on the street, he turned the car and parked it along the curb.

“We’ll need a new car if we’re to actually get away,” Louis said, already hopping out of the car. He motioned at the car and Harry took it in. He could only see from the inside, but if the missing side mirrors and smashed rear window were to go by, the car wasn’t looking healthy. Or inconspicuous. 

Harry hopped out, slowly. A little stiffly. He was feeling on edge still, like he might just fall back into oblivion. Black out. He didn’t have any words, so he just followed Louis. As the quiet stillness of the street came to life around them, Harry finally had the time to settle into his thoughts, feel the wallowing dullness of a heart that’s seen death.

Louis ducked around the corner they’d driven around, with Harry lagging behind him. Legs lethargic. Dull.

By the time Harry turned the corner, Louis was reaching into a car. Its window was open, the sign of a safe neighbourhood that Louis was testing.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, voice crackly with the weight of the morning.

“Just borrowing a car so we can make a safe escape,” Louis said, his head peeking out from the car window.

“You’re stealing it,” Harry stated, eyebrows furrowing, “You’re stealing a car. You can’t do that.”

“How do you think I got the other car, Harry?”

Harry had never had the time to question where the other car had come from. How Louis had made his way from a taxi to it. Harry was exhausted from the the day, mind numbing to the sight of Raphael being shot, body numbing to the feeling of running and hiding and hurting. He didn’t want to ask any more questions, didn’t want to know the answers. He just wanted to go somewhere quiet to hole himself away and cry. Let out a tear for the boy killed in front of him. The picture that kept replaying in his head.

Harry didn’t reply to Louis. 

Louis, on the other hand, pulled out a key from the car and smiled softly. He opened the door for Harry to get in. His face said that he was aware they shouldn’t be stealing, he understood, but there was no choice at this moment. The car would come back soon.

Harry dragged his feet to the passenger door and fell into the seat. He slumped against it, silent and tired. 

Louis pulled away from the curb. He was silent too, allowing Harry to sit with his thoughts. The air between them harsh, stale. Like Louis wanted to talk, wanted to ask Harry what he was thinking, but he couldn’t find the words.

They drove in silence for a long while, streets drifting past like a sad lullaby, until Louis finally let out a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

Harry didn’t look up at him, just picked up the corner of his mouth into a half smile that said  _ I heard you _ , and pulled his satchel into himself a little tighter.

Louis let the silence simmer a little longer before he spoke again, pulling the car to a new curb, “Stay here. I just need to make a call.”

Louis opened the door but didn’t immediately step out, instead he turned back to Harry and placed a hand on his arm, “It’ll be okay. I’m sorry.”

Louis hopped out and Harry watched as he made his way to a telephone booth. 

Louis’ call wasn’t long. Harry watched as he leant up against the glass of the booth, hip swaying out, for what felt like only a few minutes. He could see how Louis rubbed a fingernail against the phone machine while he talked.

Louis came back with a smile, one that said  _ it’s all been sorted _ . It was a kind, reassuring. 

 

Louis drove for a long time. The streets of the town fell away to countryside, and Louis tuned the car radio to something sweet while they rolled into sweeping green hills and tall airy trees. 

“We can’t take the train from Calais, whoever’s following us has probably staked out the station for all we know. We’ll take an airplane to a friend of mine and recoup.”

“It’s a woman,” Harry croaked out, “A red headed woman.”

Louis didn’t say anything to that, kept his head towards to oncoming road.

  
  
  


The next few hours seemed to pass in a hazy blur. At some point Louis had pulled off the main road to a dirt track and they’d made their way onto a small airplane. Harry had fallen into a silent state of numbness. Their pilot ought to have thought he was catatonic. 

When they landed, Harry had only been able to think of Raphael, of what had since happened to his brother. Every time he’d tried to think about getting to Santa Maria Delle Grazie, or who Louis’ friend might be, pictures of Raphael’s bloodied body and the sound of bullets took their place. He felt stuck on pause, the same few seconds playing before him over and over. Harry didn’t know where he fit into all of this anymore, this wasn’t what he signed up for. He thought he’d get a few weeks of treasure hunting and spending days with Louis’ warm smile, but instead he’d gotten being robbed and chased and followed by death. 

Harry had always pictured death as a shade of black, dark and empty and endless. But death was red, sharp and fiery and glistening, the colour of passion and pain. It was a feeling of too much, a lump in your throat, and Harry could only respond by making himself his own shade of black - cold and dull and empty. Emotionless.

 

Louis led Harry to another car and they were driving again. The blurry haze didn’t leave his vision. Harry didn’t take in the shapes of buildings and streets as they passed through. For all he knew, they could have still been in Calais.

Soon, the tawny expanse of the city fell away and rocks and trees and green took their place. The road winded and winded and the rocky hills grew larger. The countryside out the window was familiar, like he’d been here before, seen this city before. But it felt so blurry, so far away, and Harry couldn’t grasp its edges.

 

Louis took a right onto a dirt road. The car juddered under them as it left the tarmac road. Around them, plane trees came into vision, lining the road like green angels.

Louis slowed the car and the crunchy sound of the gravel and dirt and rock of the ground grew over the engine.

The trees grew closer, the road a little skinnier. They blocked the sun out almost completely, only shining through the gaps of leaves as chartreuse whispers.

Flowers began to crop up between the trees. They were sparse and green at first, but the further and further Louis drove, the denser and brighter they got.

Tiny shocks of pink and purple bloomed. Irises, peonies, roses, lilies. All of them beautiful.

The world began to slow down a bit. Get a little closer.

Then, standing between the trees and the flowers, were women. Statues. Marble outlines of women dancing in the garden, slender and gracious.

“Where are we?” Harry asked.

To their left, they passed a marble statue. Two women embracing as they looked at whoever might walk past.

“Just north of Marseille,” Louis’ voice was soft, like butter, “An old friend lives here, Margot.”

Up ahead, the trees began split open like a mossy curtain and beyond sat a chateau, three storeys tall and hugged by climbing ivy. Its corners were entirely encased in it. The walls themself were intricate, creamy and boney. The blue skies above made it glow, a diamond in the rocky hills.

The driveway turned in on itself at the base of the front steps, a wide circle around a fountain propped by a chubby cherub. Louis, however didn’t drive right up to the steps. He pulled over to a patch of lawn on the left before the drive swooped around. 

Louis got out of the car and then went around the other side to open Harry’s door. He stood there with a small kind smile as Harry slowly moved to get out.

Harry made a start towards the house, his feet lethargic. He didn’t want to move, only to lay down and wallow for a while. Let his feelings consume him. The house seemed so far to walk and he could barely carry his feet.

Louis’ voice came up from behind him, his tone kind, “We’re completely safe here, Harry.”

“Okay,” Harry replied, coming to a stop but not looking back at where Louis was behind him.

Louis took a step forward and lay a hand against his arm, waited for Harry to turn and look at him. When he did, Louis said, “I’m sorry you had to see that this morning.”

Harry swallowed and looked at the ground, didn’t want Louis to see the way that the day was affecting him. He wanted the feelings to eat away at him in silence, where no one could tell he’d spun out of control. He wanted to be alone, to be done with it all. He was reminded of why he’d hid from home at the university. 

Harry started walking towards the house again. Louis squeezed his arm again but let go to walk beside him. 

Harry didn’t think a squeeze on the arm would do anything but make him feel like a cowardly idiot, too soft to deal with real life, but the feeling of Louis’ arm leaving his skin only made him feel too alone. He couldn’t decide if bottling his feelings in front of Louis was worse than facing them on his own. 

Harry wished that Louis could just take the feelings away from him for a bit, let him breathe again.

  
  


The door to the chateau opened and three spaniels came bounding out, their brown and white fur glossy in the sun. They ran for Louis, barking and yapping, and he bent down to pat them furiously. They bounced around him, jumping up on his knees to lick his face. Louis laughed as he scratched behind their ears.

Behind the dogs came a woman, tall and slender. She had skin the colour of hot chocolate, and wiry salt and pepper hair in a bun that put her in her fifties. Her features were slim, delicate and sharp, but warm as she smiled. She carried herself with the weight of a dancer, floating towards them, arms outreached to hug Louis. The dogs still pawing at his feet.

“My dearest,” She exclaimed, pulling him into a hug and kissing his cheeks, “You divine creature, I’ve missed you.”

Harry had expected her to speak in French, or at least with a French accent, but she clearly had had English education. And a good one at that.

“Margot,” Louis replied, smiling into the hug, “I’ve missed you too.”

Louis pulled out of the hug and motioned towards Harry, “This is Harry.”

“Ah yes, of course. Come here my pet,” She said, pulling Harry into an unexpected hug. She smelled of roses and lipstick.

“You boys must come inside, rest a little after such an awful day,” Margot said, leading them towards the house. 

Her and Louis chatted happily as they walked.

  
  
  


The interior of the house was just as splendid as the garden. Harry took in the white marble floors and the matching pillars that swirled out of them. Gold decorations dotted the wallpapered walls, matching the gold in the chandeliers. A staircase was on the right, and to the left, a series of heavy oak doors that led to the rest of the house. One of them was open, a vast drawing room sat beyond, ferny plants and milky furniture filling it.

“Would you like some afternoon tea? I have some cakes already out,” Margot asked as Harry and Louis slipped off their shoes on the front step.

“Food always helps,” Louis said with a smile before turning to Harry for agreement.

“Oh, I don’t have much of an appetite right now,” Harry said.

“Of course,” Margot said respectfully, calmly, “Perhaps a change of clothes or a bath may help, then?”

Harry thought for a moment, tried to look brave. Like he didn’t need anything. Like he didn’t want to be rude. 

It didn’t work.

“May I just rest for a while, if that’s okay?”

Margot smiled and patted Louis on the back, “Oh of course, love. Louis, do take your friend to your room, get him settled. I’ll fetch some sweets, should you feel like it later.”

Louis climbed the stairs, Harry lugging behind him. He felt like such unnecessary weight to Louis. 

At the top of the stairs, third room on the left, Louis opened a door to a wide room. Rich tones of whites and creams and brown woods made up the bedroom, a four poster bed in the middle. Louis stood in the doorway as Harry walked in and sat on the bed. 

Neither said anything for a long moment.

“ _ Your  _ room?” Harry asked eventually.

“Yeah,” Louis replied, not moving from where he was.

He didn’t elaborate further, a habit of Louis’ that Harry didn’t yet appreciate.

Harry lay back onto the bed and rolled to look out the window. He wanted Louis to come and hug him, have that feeling of his hand on his skin again. The feeling of sharing the weight of the world so that he just might bare it. But he didn’t know how to ask for it. They’d slept in the same bed already, but they’d known each other for less than a week, and Harry didn’t know how to tell Louis that he wanted to be alone in his thoughts, but not alone in the bed. He wanted to be able to cry on his shoulder, but didn’t know how to tell Louis not to try and make it better. It was a feeling of wanting to wallow in the pain so that when it faded, when the pictures of blood finally left, Harry could pick himself up and not feel like he’d left forgotten pieces of sorrow in his pocket. He could just get it out of his system.

A few moments passed and Louis finally said in almost a whisper, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

The door clicked shut and Harry already wanted to roll back over and call for him to come back.

Instead, he let the knot in his throat grow. Let his eyes dampen. But tears never fully came because it didn’t feel real, Harry didn’t know Raphael. He couldn’t piece together a montage of happy moments they’d shared together. He was a stranger, a person he could have known but was already gone by the time they’d said hello. 

A flash in the pan. 

The only thing he knew of Raphael was his name and the bruise that coloured his face. And so Harry only had pictures of blood and sorrow to remember. But he was so tired of those, so tired of the same three seconds playing before being pulled away in a speeding car. He felt sorrow for what Raphael could have been, had Harry managed to pull him into the car with him.

Harry tried to sleep instead. He stared out the window, hoping the harsh sunlight would bleach his mind of the bloody memory. He kept staring, hoping his eyes would turn heavy and he could disappear for a while. 

Where his eyes didn’t form tears, they didn’t form sleep either.

Harry rolled and lay on his back, closed his eyes and tried to picture things that would lull him into sleep. He thought of his sisters, of his mother, but that only made him think of what family Raphael might’ve had. He tried to think of Louis but that only made him wonder how he coped with this sort of life. He tried to think of his books but they dulled in comparison. Harry tried to think of nothing, but nothing wasn’t the black of sleep, it was still the red that had lacquered his day.

Harry opened his eyes and looked down at his arm, that one that had been drenched in blood. Somewhere between that sick moment and laying here in bed, it had been wiped clean by someone. Or sweated off. Harry couldn’t remember, everything else of the day had become a blur. His sweet morning with Louis was all but a distant fantasy.

It felt like hours had passed as Harry waited for sleep to come, or for the feelings to pass. The sun had shifted in the sky, coming to sit on the window pane. The room had started to glow a rosy gold.

Footsteps eventually came up the stairs and then the door clicked back open.

It was Louis.

His voice was quiet, timid.

“Harry,” was all he said at first, “Are you sleeping?” 

Harry felt the bed shift as Louis came to sit on it.

“No,” Harry said, rolling to his side to look up at Louis.

“I’m sorry you had to see that today,” Louis said, “I’m so sorry. I…” He paused for a moment, searching for words, “I owe you some honesty.”

Harry stayed silent, watched as Louis shyly brought out a hand and moved some hairs out of Harry’s face. He blinked at the feeling of Louis touching his skin. 

Louis lay down onto his side so he was facing Harry straight on. In this pink evening light, Louis’ blue eyes had turned a pale shade of lavender. 

Louis’ voice was almost a whisper, “I know who was chasing us. Her name is Selene. I stole the telescope from her.”

Louis reached out to fiddle with the collar of Harry’s polo. Harry let him.

“You have a habit of stealing things,” Harry commented, his voice just as quiet as Louis’.

“I- Can I explain? Please.” Louis asked and Harry gave a silent yes.

“When I was growing up, it was just my mum and I. It’s always just been us two. But I couldn’t have asked for more, she was my best friend and I did everything I could to help her. We… we were poor. Poorer than you can probably imagine. So I… had to steal to survive. I had to. It started with food, just little things. But then I discovered I could sell things, and so I started stealing more. And soon I found myself stealing from someone rich.”

Louis paused, flicked his eyes up from where they were tangled in his fingers around Harry’s collar.

“Someone like Margot. She caught me and made me work for her to earn back what I’d stolen from her. But she’s so kind, an outsider too, so I kept coming back to help her even when I’d earned everything back.”

“That’s why she said ‘your’ room?”

“Yeah, I stay with her still when I have nowhere else to go.”

“Don’t you have a home?”

“I… have places I’ve lived, but a home… Home isn’t a place.”

Harry swallowed quietly as Louis continued his story.

“I started to do actual, proper, business for her. Collecting artefacts and art and-”

“Did you steal those too?” Harry tried to jest, but it came out hollow.

Louis took a moment before answering, “You know, I don’t think anyone keeps their station without thievery. I’ve always noticed how the rich have very shallow pockets.”

“Oh,” Harry had never thought about it, “But you do… steal for a living, though?”

Louis bit his lip, careful of his phrasing, “I only take what people can afford to lose. An old piece of art isn’t going to put food on anyone’s table but my own. It’s just taking from one rich arsehole and selling it on to the next.”

Louis paused, waited for Harry to let him tell his story. His eyes said no more questions, _ you’re interrupting _ . 

Harry got the message and let out a shy smile as Louis continued, “This work...It allowed me to earn enough money so that my mother didn’t need to work. Eventually I got to doing bigger jobs and soon enough it became too much for one person. A few years ago, I met the daughter of one of my clients. She didn’t want to do school or marry yet, she wanted to… follow me.”

Harry thought of the way he’d dropped everything to leave with Louis.

“And I let her. I owed her father and I think they wanted her out of the house. She’s always been trouble-”

“And she’s Selene?”

“Yeah.”

Louis rolled onto his back.

“She’s always been such a… wild animal. She could get anything, get away with anything. Sometimes I thought she wasn’t human. She could take food out of a starving kid’s hand and not think twice.”

“Or kill him,” Harry interjected, before closing his eyes and pressing his fingers over them.

Louis shifted on the bed. A hand came to stroke Harry’s hair. When Harry didn’t respond, just kept his hand pressed to his eyes, Louis shifted again and pulled Harry into his side. Tucked him into his arm so that Harry’s head was pressed into his chest.

“Yeah,” Came Louis’ voice, quiet and croaky.

There was another quiet pause as Louis tried to find his words, “She, uh, wanted to be with me,” His voice wavered, “And I played along for a while. It was a good look. I was a no-name before her, just a lowly Northerner. But I never loved her.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He held his breath. Stayed as still as possible, his body turning rigid. The way they were tucked up together seemed to hold so much weight in that moment. Harry felt like he might finally cry.

“How come?” Harry asked, his voice tiny.

“Because…” Louis became stiff like a statue too, Harry could feel his pec tighten and still, “I could never love someone like her. She’s…”

Harry wanted him to say,  _ because she’s a woman _ .

“Not home. We don’t fit.”

Louis’ body relaxed and all Harry could think was how this, right here, felt like home, and he’d only known this man for a few days. Harry let out the breath he’d been holding, made a tiny move further into Louis’ side. He hoped that Louis felt the same and that his words meant more than just what he’d said, that the way they were lying together punctuated his sentences differently, did the talking for him.

Louis squeezed Harry’s shoulder.

“I, uh, broke it off last winter. She wanted to marry and I didn’t want to play the part anymore. And she lost it. I’d never seen her like that before. It was like she wasn’t even angry, she just… It was like she’d flicked a switch and become someone else entirely. She didn’t say a word to me, just walked out of the house. She was smiling, even. I should have known then… Should have stopped her.”

Louis’ went rigid again, he was holding his breath. The muscles in his arm went taut. A moment passed and then Louis sniffed. When he talked again, his voice faltered and broke.

“She… killed my mum.”

Another pause, another sniff.

“She wanted to hurt me in the worst way possible… And she did. She just… Slit… Her throat one night, and I came home and...”

Harry immediately shifted, the memory of the blood he’d seen that day shaken out of the way by the thought of the kind of blood Louis must have seen. He reached out and hugged Louis, soothed him where his shoulder curved towards his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered.

Louis reached out his own hand and squeezed Harry’s. Their hands stayed together.

“I couldn’t do anything for months. I couldn’t stay at home, it… Still smelled like mum. And she ruined my name, telling everyone stories about me, so I couldn’t work. I only had Margot, and she’s lovely and the only person I’ve been able to  trust still but… She’s not my mum... So I stole the telescope. It was a gift from her father, but she could never open it. I remember sitting and watching her in the evenings try to solve it. She carried it everywhere. I knew it must lead to something important and… Hopefully worth some money. So I just snuck in and took it one night and left to find someone who might be able to open it. You.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at that, his lips pressed against Louis’ shirt.

“I shouldn’t have though,” Louis continued, “I dragged you into all this without telling you. I was just… scared to. I didn’t want to tell a stranger all of this, so it was better to just not say anything and hope that Selene wouldn’t find us so fast. But then she was on the ferry and-”

“That could have been any woman.”

“I recognised her voice.”

“But you were asleep?” Harry thought of the way their legs had leaned into each other, nestled.

“I… wasn’t. Not quite, anyway.”

Harry didn’t say anything. His cheeks felt hot. Never mind the fact that their legs touching on the ferry paled in comparison to their entire bodies touching now. But it was different then. Harry hadn’t learned that Louis didn’t mind being touched, that he gave affection away so freely. He felt a little embarrassed. Caught. Like he’d said too much too soon. But maybe he wouldn’t be here, lying like this, if it weren’t for the actions he’d taken before. Maybe he was waiting for Louis, and Louis was waiting for him. 

He didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to make these little things said between the lines concrete. He wanted Louis to do that first.

“You can go home,” Louis said, breaking the silence Harry had created, “If you want. I understand if this is too much. You didn’t sign up for any of this. I’m sorry.”

Harry hadn’t. A boy had been killed in front of him and they were being chased by the woman who’d done it. But Louis had lost his mother, and the weight of these two lost lives felt too important to throw away. It was like letting Raphael and Louis’ mother’s lives go to waste was a worse decision than putting himself in danger now. Louis had lost so much, more that Harry ever had. He’d lived his whole life in danger, yet he didn’t need to lock himself into an empty bedroom to wallow in terrible memories.

Harry wanted to protect Louis, return the favour. Let him breathe a little and not have to carry the world on his shoulders.

In that moment, Harry understood Louis a little more. Understood why he might make a living out of dirty deals and putting himself in the firing line.

It was like there was no other choice for Harry but stay here and make these lives matter, give Louis hope. Make choices for more than just himself.

He could have just taken Louis home to Oxford, made a quiet life, forgotten all about this. But he understood the retribution that this would give for Raphael’s life and Louis’ and his mother’s. All of them. He wanted to feel like he’d taken the chance for them and won. Not run away like he’d always done. He didn’t want to hide anymore. That would only make him feel guilty.

Though maybe it was the way Louis’ thumb was caressing Harry’s hand that changed his mind.

“What’s your mum’s name?” Harry asked, finally. Not answering Louis’ offers to return home.

“Uh, Johannah...”

Harry didn’t even pause before he said, adamant, “I’ll stay. We’ll do it for her. Johannah. And you.”

Louis must have smiled, Harry could hear the way his lips parted slightly. He squeezed Harry, not tight, but appreciatively.

Harry squeezed him back. Smiled too. He could have kissed the seam of Louis’ shirt had he squeezed a little harder, pressed his face into Louis’ side a little further.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The room grew darker, from pink to purple to blue. But they stayed entwined, unmoving, grasping onto each other like if they were to let go, they’d float away and never have this moment again. Harry, head still resting on Louis’ chest, looked up to where Louis was staring at the ceiling. From this angle, Louis’ eyelashes looked so long, delicate and soft. Pretty.

Instinctively, Louis looked down at him. 

Harry smiled at him, and smiled again when Louis gave him one back.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered.

“What for?” Louis replied, voice as delicate as his eyelashes.

“Just for…” Harry sought for the words. The words that said that this felt like home. This felt like he wasn’t hiding. This felt like Louis was giving Harry the strength to brave, “Just for this. Telling me. Accepting me. Holding me. Making me feel.... Whole.”

Louis didn’t reply immediately, seeming to ruminate over what Harry was saying. Harry wondered if he’d managed to let on more than he’d said, if Louis understood the admission in his words. That his acceptance was more than just about letting Harry be upset and not berating him like the other men in his life, but in accepting all of him and the way he was wrapped around him like a lover. And that he made him feel whole, like you do when you’ve been away for too long and finally, finally, come home.

Louis’ answer came as a tiny whisper, full of his own admissions, “I’m the same.”

It felt like whatever needed to be said, gotten across, had. And it felt like Harry was beyond the point of no return, hurtling towards  _ something _ with Louis. Like they, Harry and Louis,  _ Harryandlouis _ , would be inevitable. They’d laid their cards on the table, they were just waiting for the other to turn them over, make it official. Make it real. Take things from the spaces between words to the words themselves.

The energy between them had shifted.

Harry wanted Louis to say the words first, ask Harry to kiss him, love him,  _ be mine _ . 

The way Louis closed his eyes and stroked Harry’s hair until Harry closed his eyes too seemed to say,  _ we don’t need words, my love _ .

Louis’ body felt sure, calm. An anchor. The way his breaths slowly steadied and became sleepy showed that he was comfortable, and that Harry didn’t need to question the turn their relationship had taken. The threshold they had stepped over. Louis’ quiet breaths spelled words for him,  _ we’re the same. Don’t worry. We are going to the same place. To the same home. _

_ We’ll get there when it’s right. _

_ We’ll get there when it’s perfect. _

_ I’m with you. _

_ We are the same. _

 

The room soon fell into a peaceful black and Harry fell into sleep. There were still flashes of red, of course. He still woke every so often to the sharp stab of pictures of the day before. But Louis was there and Louis made Harry brave. Louis turned flashes of red to hues of pink. 

So Harry would pull him a little closer and Louis would instinctively squeeze him back and he made it through the night with the weight of the world halved.


	8. The Nail.

Tuesday 

June 18th, 1935.

Calais, France.

 

“Get out,” She spat, daggers in the specks of saliva that flew from her mouth.

Sacha got out wordlessly. Without asking for the money she had promised.

He ran down the street and her blood boiled.

Police sirens grew closer but she didn’t take note. They didn’t know who they were looking for.

She drove in circles. Around the streets on and on until she knew she would not find them.

“Bastards,” She whispered to herself.

She kept driving.

The roads bent around buildings in one continuous blur as she looked for the dark green car Louis was driving.

It wasn’t until she turned and returned to the houses protected by tall walls the colour of weak tea that she got a clue.

There, parked immediately on the right, was the beaten up car. A woman was standing in front of it, inspecting the smashed windows and missing side mirror. Her hands were on the front bonnet, entranced and holding herself steady like she didn’t believe what she was looking at.

Strange, she thought, that the woman be so shocked by the sight of a battered car. Selene knew it wasn’t that woman’s car, so why should she be so enthralled. It was just a car. Nothing of value.

Her eyes cast down to a shape on ground behind the car. A book.

Selene didn’t pull over. Instead, she parked the car right where she was in the middle of the road, and walked to the book without taking her eyes off it.

The woman stared at her.

Paying no attention, Selene picked up the book and looked at its cover. Old and beaten, the title read,  _ Da Vinci: An Anatomy of A Polymath _ .

Selene blinked. And then hopped back in her car.

The abandoned car and the book meant that Louis and the other one would likely be on foot and not far. A grin crept onto her face.

She drove to the end of the street at a snail’s pace as she searched every gateway, every nook and cranny.

The men were not there.

She turned right at the end and continued her search.

When she’d been down four streets and heeded nothing, her smile fell an inch. Around her, the pavements were quiet. The occasional person walked past.

Selene would slowly drive past them, staring as though she could read their faces and see the two men in them, see the minutes before reflected in their eyes.

But all she saw were empty stares, eyes catching on her sunglasses in unknowing glances.

Her grip around the steering wheel tightened. 

She kept driving.

Down the next few streets, houses fell away to shops and the pavements grew busier.

A stream of faces passed by her but none were the ones she was seeking.

Her grip grew tighter still. The nail of the middle finger on her right hand caught in the glossy grain of the laquered wood. She pressed it in until the nail began to bend.

She could not turn around anymore with cars behind her, and the crowds of people grew larger. She could no longer track every face she passed.

Maddened, she held her breath and stopped the car. Behind her, cars began to pile up. She sat in the middle of the busy road until there was a line, ten cars long, behind her.

They honked. With every one, her nostrils flared.

Her grip grew tighter and tighter, her fingers turning white. Her nail began to split as she leered at every face that surrounded her. People had begun to look. Their eyes were curious.

She wanted to stab them, cut them away until only her two men were left.

And then she’d cut at them too.

Her nail split completely, ripping along its seams. A drop of blood pooled at the corner of her nail. When it dripped onto her skirt, she promised herself the next blood she’d see would be theirs.


	9. The Church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at forreveries.tumblr.com

Wednesday 

June 19th, 1935.

Marseille, France.

 

When Harry woke on his back, his neck was crook. But Louis was still curled around him in a hug so he didn’t mind.

The room was still cool from the night, dawn not yet starting to trickle in through the windows. The walls were still cast blue, the bookshelves that lined them still in shadows.

Harry shifted, mind foggy but happy, and tucked his head into Louis’ chin. Louis made a small noise, sleepily pulling Harry tighter.

It made Harry smile to be like this, tucked around Louis, knowing that something had changed between them. Albeit, it had started to feel like they were always going to end up like this, the way Louis had stood close when they’d first met. The way he found reasons to guide Harry by the arm. They were still moving, taking steps, gravitating towards something.

Harry didn’t have a name for what that something was, but he felt assured that with everything else falling into place with Louis, this would too. They’d find their name for this, work it out between them. Louis always carried an air of assuredness, he was never uncomfortable and just let things happen as they happen, and it was contagious. Harry didn’t feel like he needed to wake Louis and ask, beg, for answers. They weren’t swimming straight for something definitive. Rather, wading in a pool where friendship and love murked together in a sparkling, warm, whirl.

Harry’s stomach fluttered. 

And then it growled. The noise deafening in the hazy morning quiet, and he remembered that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before. And then he remembered why that was.

Harry hugged Louis a little tighter.

Louis hugged him back, still asleep. Much the same way one might pull the covers towards themselves without waking. Instinctual.

But Harry’s stomach was still hungry, panging, begging for something to fill it. He didn’t want to move, both to not disturb Louis and because he was in a stranger’s house.

Harry tried to stay there as long as possible, watching the shadows start shift and lighten with the imminent morning, but his neck started to ache and he needed to move. 

Unfurling out from Louis’ warm arms, Harry sat up. Louis shifted and rolled into the warm patch Harry left in the bed. 

Harry rubbed his eyes and stretched out his back and neck. In hindsight, sleeping in a pool of limbs hadn’t exactly been the smartest idea. 

Harry looked back at Louis’ sleeping frame and smiled to himself. Louis had a tiny sliver of dried spit across his cheek and it seemed too good to be true. To see Louis, normally so cocky and ardent, like this. Sleepy and soft and rather feminine. His body was curved graciously across the bed, and the way his hair washed over his face gave him such an air of preciousness. 

Harry stood up and wrapped the duvet over Louis, keep him warm from where they’d fallen asleep on top of the covers. He pulled the right-side edges over so Louis was sandwiched.

Then Harry pulled the curtains closed and left the room.

 

The house was quiet and the white walls in the hallway were almost navy, on the wrong side of the house to catch glimpses of breaking daylight.

Harry creeped down the stairs, each step crackling softly under his feet. Still in the polo and shorts he’d arrived in, Harry wrapped his arms around him. It wasn’t cold, per se, just cooler than their breath had made the bedroom.

Harry could hear the faint sounds of footsteps somewhere in the house, somewhere downstairs. He stopped to listen to them, thoughts immediately jumping to Selene. 

And her habit of showing up wherever Harry and Louis were. 

He reminded himself that it would have been impossible for her to track them by airplane, she couldn’t hitch a ride or follow behind. Louis had already reminded him that he’d be safe here, in this idyllic estate with a sweet spinster.

Nonetheless, Harry held his arms a little tighter and considered running back up to Louis.

The footsteps weren’t light however, they carried the weight of someone who was moving about comfortably. Not sneaking. Faintly, there were other sounds too. The clinking of metal.

Harry cautiously took a step down.

A kettle whistled. The sound of breakfast.

Harry let go of his breath, and went down the rest of the stairs. 

His caution had become curiosity. He followed the sound through an open door to the drawing room - the one he’d peeked the day before.

The drawing room itself, as he could finally see, was a wide open room. A great chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling. Below it, a family of settees and chairs lazed about. The room was full of curious things, old globes and paintings and sculptures. 

Harry tried to take it all in. 

A series of trophy heads on one of the walls, gazelles and zebras and rhinos, looked down at him. Trinkets sat on shelves below them, shiny and glinting in the rising sun. They were old things, metallic and brilliantly decorative. The things you could sit and peruse all day. One small jewellery box caught his eye. It was encased in purple velvet, with red rubies set in the curling gold edging. On the front of the box, under the tiniest lock was a golden plaque, with roses growing around it. On it, the letter ‘P’ was written.

On the other walls paintings seemed to cover every inch of wall, each a varying size and colour. In the centre, however, hung a painting that outshone the rest. In it, a woman seemed to wrap in on herself, patterns of gold and red and blue and more gold dancing around her. Harry immediately recognized it as a work of Gustav Klimt. It was beautiful, the way the gold seemed to shift and dance. Harry took a step back to look at it better, leaning on one of the sofas behind him. He lazily gripped the back of the chair.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Came a voice to his right, a soft French accent.

Harry looked over, feeling like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, “Oh, uh, yes. I’ve never seen one in person. It’s quite something.”

A man was standing to Harry’s side, smiling courteously. His face was worn by wrinkles, and white hair haloed around his head. He was dressed in an impeccable black suit, with white gloves that held a silver tray with a pot, tea cup and biscuits.

A butler.

“My apologies for interrupting, Monsieur,” He said, “May I offer you a coffee?”

Harry’s stomach grumbled again and he couldn’t say no.

The butler poured Harry a drink and gave him the biscuits to match, saying he’d make Margot another and that he was sorry for being out on errands for their short notice arrival. Harry said he didn’t mind, leaving out that he was thankful another person didn’t have to see his embarrassing state the day before.

“Make yourself at home,” He said, bowing and leaving to return to the attached kitchen.

And then Harry was, again, alone in the drawing room looking up at the grand golden painting. He turned his attention to the windows. The sun was higher now, the room a little warmer, and the thought of taking a walk outside seemed more inviting than feeling like he was snooping around someone’s home.

 

Margot’s garden was gorgeous. A wide lawn spread out before him, surrounded by the same colourful flowers he’d seen the day before. Only now they looked crisp. The sun had risen just enough to paint their petals gold.

Harry sat on the edge of the veranda steps to look out at it all. He saw how, to his right, the ground curved down and the white gravel path twisted between rose bushes to glasshouse. To his left was a pond, water shifting above swimming fish. Up ahead, the garden turned to another path, a sort of lover’s lane, which meandered between flower beds and over a small white bridge. Harry couldn’t see where it went.

He contemplated, warm drink cupped between hands, about following the path. He was ever curious. Always wanting to find things out. But gravel path would be so harsh to walk along in his bare feet, surely.

He considered walking along the grass to get around it.

And then a wet nose was up against him, sniffing at his ear and tickling him.

Harry jerked away, giggling, and then patted the dog that had stuck its face in his neck.

“She likes you,” Came Margot’s voice from behind.

Harry turned to face her, giving a small smile as she talked, “She usually only likes people she already knows. Lucky you.”

Margot was smiling, but there was something underneath. Something practiced. 

Harry only wondered if sleeping against Louis had made him smell like him, if the dog was picking up the warm earthy smell of the beautiful man he’d shared a bed with. And if so, no wonder the dog had wanted to bury itself in it like Harry had done the night before.

“What’s her name?” Harry asked, rubbing under the dog’s ear as it leaned against his left side.

Margot answered as she sat the the white cast iron table on the deck. The two other dogs sat contently at her feet. 

“Penelope.”

“Penelope,” Harry repeated, talking more to the dog than himself or Margot. Penelope looked up at him, round eyes glassy and calm. She panted warm air into Harry’s face, “It’s a beautiful name.”

“Yes,” Margot replied. She took a sip of her coffee and sat for a moment before continuing. When she talked her voice was purposeful. Quiet but daring.

“I named her after an old lover. In her memory.”

“Oh,” Harry said quietly. He wasn’t sure what to say. She’d said  _ her _ and her voice had been testing. And the practiced dullness in her voice gave away that she was purposely telling Harry to know her completely and accept that, or to not be welcome here at all.

He admired that, the glimpse into the kind of person he could be one day -  _ take me or leave me _ . 

Harry stayed looking down at the dog in his lap, stroking her hair with a slowing pace, “I’m… I’m sorry to hear that. For your loss.”

He must have said the right thing, not made a fuss or cussed her out. Harry sensed the change in her posture, the loosening of her shoulders at his words. Her voice relaxed too, back to its perky self, “Never you mind that, pet. Tis the way life is, these things.”

Harry looked up to her from his spot on the deck to give her an understanding smile. Margot was looking out to somewhere in the garden and didn’t catch it. Her face was unreadable. Wistful, possibly. Or contemplative. 

Harry offered, “At least her memory lives on in such a lovely pup.”

Margot’s eyes slid from the garden to meet Harry’s. They were brown and glossy, sharp. Despite her warmth, she seemed to carry an air of gloom. It reminded Harry of his mother, whose eyes might turn dark in the quiet moments when she sat by Harry’s bed till he slept, a flicker of something else in the spaces between stories and good night kisses. He’d seen the way she’d be so full of thoughts, mind somewhere else, but give nothing away. Smile brightly and move Harry along when he asked about it.

Margot smiled at Harry in her own way, not bright and sparkly like his mother but calm and assured. Her voice was silky too, “Yes. It does. Some would rather forget we exist all together.”

She’d stared right into Harry’s eyes as she’d said it and it felt like she wasn’t just referring to herself and her Penelope - her lover.

Harry swallowed and turned back to the Penelope in his lap, smoothed the fur around her face. He didn’t know what to say exactly. Mainly, he wondered if somewhere in the time between falling asleep and waking, Louis had said something to her. Creeped out of bed to confess the changing shape of their relationship. The obvious infatuation Harry had had for him the entire time they’d known each other.

He wanted to share with her, tell her he was the same.

He’d lived the life of kissing boys and jumping in their beds and being okay with it, but he couldn’t think of a time he’d said the words aloud. Told someone. At least someone he wasn’t kissing at the time.

Telling someone that he prefered boys had always felt scarier than kissing the boys he’d be talking about. It was harder to say things without the smoky shadows of inebriated bedrooms.

But Margot was warm, a safe person to tell. She’d just said so herself. And Harry considered saying the words aloud, finally.

Margot didn’t wait for him, though. She spoke again, inquisitive, warm. Like his mother, again. 

“Did Louis talk to you last night? I hope he did,” She paused thoughtfully, “That boy… He takes too much on himself.”

Harry nodded and she kept thinking aloud.

“Good, I’m so glad to hear Harry. You… I believe you’re a very special man.”

Harry tucked his quiet smile towards his chin, looking at his hand in Penelope’s fur. He was shy to acknowledge her.

“Louis, the sweet boy, has been through it all. He thinks he’s helping by not sharing his burdens, but he carries too many. It’s good for him to talk. And not just to me, but to someone…” She didn’t finish her sentence, another thought bubbling up instead, “He needs someone like you, Harry. Granted, I don’t particularly know you but from what I’ve been told, you must have a kind soul. Not too used to the world like me-” Another pause- “I’ve not seen Louis so softened and like himself in such a long time. It’s good. You must keep that about you, Harry. Don’t let the terrible things in life harden you.”

Harry finally spoke, his morning voice still quiet and crackly, “I won’t.”

“Good.”

 

They sat in the quiet for a while, watching the morning rise before them. There were birds, somewhere, and they were singing.

  
  


As Harry drunk his now cold coffee, swishing the liquid in the cup between sips, Margot’s words swirled in his mind. He thought of Louis’ soft edges, the sides of him he’d already caught glimpses of. The way his body curved when he was relaxed and for a short while, unaware of eyes around him. The way he didn’t slump as he slept, but curled like a freshly fallen petal. 

Harry thought of their conversation the night before, and how he must be special if Louis had let him in - albeit, by the sounds of it, by Margot’s insistence.

He felt a mix of emotions, like the sweet and the bitter of his drink, about the walls Louis let down around him and the fact that he needed them up in the first place. He felt a familiar sadness as he saw those walls within himself, forever scared to live truthfully and in spite of his family. 

There was a thread that seemed to tie Harry and Louis together, stitching both of their mouths shut for sake of other people’s comfort.

He understood the responsibility Louis must feel to those around him, to keep them comfortable and in business, and not with someone they would deem perverted. To make himself stand taller and wider, and never ever curl like a petal. 

Harry considered the reasons he didn’t just get up and leave his family. It was his ties to his mother, and Gemma, that kept him. He could live in squalor any day, but he feared the consequences of breaking his family up. The possibility of his mother’s shame. That his father would turn to her for blame.

In a way, though, Harry had already left his family. Left them to put the pieces together themselves if they so wished. Had they truly looked at Harry, they might have put his puzzle together - the years away, the hush on his love life, his outward disregard for the hardness of masculinity.

Perhaps he’d left them a little more when he’d gotten on that ferry with Louis.

Perhaps it was the feeling that he’d met someone so like himself that made it a little easier to take another step away, and take away a piece of guilt Harry still felt of himself out of his heart.

Harry swirled the last of his coffee and his thoughts and tipped them both back.

 

When the sun was high enough for Harry’s toes to bake as he leaned back on his elbows, Louis finally came shuffling outside.

Harry turned from where he was looking at the ripples in the pond to the sound his flittering footsteps. Louis was still in the disheveled clothes he’d slept in, the crust of drool still tickling his stubble and his eyes round and puffy. Frankly he just looked cuddly.

Louis was smiling as he said a bright good morning to the two of them outside. He came right up to Harry and fluffed his fingers in his hair, shaking out Harry’s curls.

“How’s your morning, Mar?” His voice was, though at talking level, vastly louder than the quiet, thoughtful, hushes of the earlier conversation.

Harry smiled towards the garden as Louis stroked and smoothed down his hair, and then left his hand there. It was warmer than the sun he’d been lazily stretching his toes towards.

“Lovely, my sweet. We’ve just been enjoying the sun in such a wonderful quiet,” Her voice was light and for small talk, but Harry could hear the teasing at the end. Her emphasis on the ‘quiet’ giving her sweetened sarcasm away. Harry dared not look back to see how she was looking at Louis’ fingers in his hair.

“I’m sure. She’s not been telling you all my secrets, has she?” Louis asked, smiling as he brushed a finger across Harry’s chin as Harry looked up at him.

Louis held his hand there too.

He looked straight into Harry’s eyes, and his face was sunny but his eyes shifted like he was searching for the words Harry and Margot had shared.

“No,” Harry said. His voice cracked and he smiled, feigning irreverence.

“I doubt it,” Louis playfully tapped Harry’s cheek before sitting down on the side of Harry that didn’t have a dog, “I’m a secretive man, and Margot’s a gossip. Can’t keep her mouth shut.”

Louis winked at Margot and Harry kept his mouth shut, hid a grin.

“You’re right, Lou, I was just telling Harry of the time you came knocking about the house, drunk as a skunk, crying about having wet yourself in the garden. Quite an embarrassing party that was. Couldn’t do your zipper, apparently, though when we found you in the morning - in the glasshouse no less - your trousers had buttons.”

There was triumph in Margot’s voice, a gotcha. She’d not only match Louis’ teasing, but one up him too.

Louis scrunched up his nose, an attempt to hide his smile. Or his embarrassment. 

“Total fibs,” Louis tried to say matter-of-factly, though it came out strained. Petulant. 

“I think not. If you like, Harry, I can show you where Louis eventually tried to throw them out his bedroom window in an attempt to hide the evidence.”

Louis scrunched up his face again and didn’t say anything more, a show of defeat. Though he smiled when he caught Harry’s giggles in his ear, felt Harry’s leg bump his.

“I think, Mar, we ought to head off before you say anything more,” Louis said as he stood up, hands on his hips with one foot on the bottom step.

Margot stood too and walked to the top step so she was a half head taller than Louis, and wiped the drool he still had on his chin with a wet thumb, “I think if you’re going to leave just as quickly as you turned up, you ought tidy yourself up a bit, my sweet.”

She winked and then turned back to the house, her silk dressing gown shimmering behind her.

Louis touched his chin, miffed. He rubbed at the last of his spit trail as Harry stood up and, avoiding a grin at the sight of him, took his chin between two fingers.

“You’ve got it all,” Harry said, shifting Louis’ face from side to side, checking for any rogue specks.

“Thanks,” Louis whispered. They were close enough for Harry to pull Louis’ face in and kiss him right there.

Harry bit his lip, hid his smile.

“Let’s go,” Louis said, not moving, “Planes to catch, churches to see.”

“Okay.”

Louis led the way back into the house, hand on Harry’s wrist.

It was warm. And Harry let his smile out.

  
  
  


Santa Maria Delle Grazie was smaller than Harry remembered, the memory of it somehow morphing and dwindling in the years since he’d been there.

Milan was hot and humid air was baking off the sienna bricks of the church’s facade. The shirt Harry was wearing clung to him. It was Louis’ and had fit snugly when he’d first put it on that morning after a comment that Harry’s shirt had small red marks along one sleeve. Tiny reminders of Raphael that he hadn’t noticed. 

Louis had insisted he change and had opened a wardrobe to present choice after choice after choice. Harry, suddenly plagued by the realization he’d slept in the bloodied shirt, didn’t choose anything. He’d stared at his sleeve, unable to even take even the shirt off, until Louis picked a blue polo out for him. Louis had made him bath, helped him change too, and coaxed him back to reality.

Little slivers of the day before seemed to come back in short flashes. Harry had tried to remember what Margot said, to not let it harden him, but he needed to swallow the thoughts and shift them to the back of his mind. They came again on the plane when they’d sat in their seats and Louis had made a comment about the luxury of air travel.

“Bit of a nice change from yesterday’s flight,” he’d said.

“Is it?” Harry had replied, looking around at the other passengers in their Sunday best, trying to remember the flight they’d taken the day before. He caught glimpses of crates and the flapping of something’s wing and not much else. Everything was punched out with flashes of glossy red and Harry’s heart sank again.

“I, uh, don’t remember,” Harry had rubbed his brow. He knew they’d taken a plane, understood that logically it had happened, but he couldn’t piece the bits together.

Louis had then given Harry a strange look, his eyebrows knitting together, “We were stashed in the back? With the chickens?” And Harry’s face must have changed when he looked a little deeper and remembered the mangled sounds of a chicken clucking and the motor rumbling because Louis had squeezed his arm and shook his head, apologizing.

So Harry had tried to shake the thoughts from his mind, stay in the moment, and move on. Be brave for Louis, and keep moving forwards. And now they’d found themselves standing in front of the church they’d been looking for at last.

 

The church itself was a long rectangular building made of red brick. It was modest and angular in appearance. Along the sides ran only one row of rectangle windows, topped by one row of circular windows. At the furthest end, a hexagonal dome shot up from the roof. The dome pulled your attention, a dense mix of squares and circles covering each side in shades of white and sienna. At the front doors a small group of people had started to form, milling about in a talkative cluster.

“The Last Supper is in the refectory,” Harry said, from where they were standing a good 50 metres away, figuring how they would get around inside undisturbed. Beyond the main church building was the rest of the monastery, a selection of buildings where priests and the like lived and breathed and would be suspicious of two strange men snooping around for clues.

“And where inside is that?” Louis asked in a low voice.

“From memory, they took us through a courtyard to one of the further buildings,” Harry recalled from the time he’d been taken through the buildings on a class trip. Their tour guide, a short stout priest, had spent the morning with Harry and four of his classmates explaining in oddly vague detail the history of the church. The priest, whose name Harry couldn’t remember, had talked in a slow drawling voice that went in circles and ended in nowhere of value. Harry, in all his boredom, had used that morning to let his mind wander into the cracks in the walls and the dizzying colours in the paintings. All he really remembered from the trip was standing in the church building and staring off at a painted angel, beautiful and alluring, and wishing he could paint like that.

Louis hummed in response to Harry and thought for a moment. His hands were on his hips and he leaned to one side, mouth twisting into a thoughtful knot as he pointed the tip of his shoe into the pavement edges, “I think… our best bet might be to join that group. Looks like a tour. No doubt they’ll be shown The Last Supper.”

Harry nodded, watching on as the group grew from six people to twelve.

Louis started towards them, talking as he motioned to Harry to move with him, “We’ll just slip in the back of the group. Easy peasy.”

“Without paying? Won’t they notice?”

Louis had a playful grin on his face, like a cat with a bird in its mouth, “No. Just act like you’re meant to be there. You’d be surprised where you can get in just by looking like you own the place.”

“But we could just pay?” Harry retorted dubiously, but not so seriously. He rather liked the impish look Louis had.

“Less fun.”

Harry bit his lip, feeling a strange mix of worry and excitement. Wanting to follow Louis into mischief but fearing being caught in the act. 

“Just keep your head down. Look unassuming. You’ll be fine,” Louis added. Then winked.

Harry nibbled on his thumb’s nail and thought that maybe, he supposed, all the money he’d spent on the last lacklustre tour here balanced this out. And that Louis’ proclivity for misbehaviour was intoxicating. Harry felt a bubble of fear, remnants of the day before, but he swallowed it. He wanted to prove he was still up for the challenge.

“Okay,” He said, barely containing his nerves and excitement, “I blame you if we get caught.”

Louis raised his eyebrows with a quirk of the corner of his mouth,  _ sure, fine, do it, _ and then they’d made their way to the edge of the group.

 

This tour was anything but boring.

Their guide spoke in English, calm and knowledgeable, and their group was made up predominantly of young women. This meant that, by all accords, Harry and Louis should have stuck out like a sore thumb and been questioned immediately. However, by some perfect luck, none of the girls seemed to know each other, and to each it was apparently assumed that Harry and Louis were just the bored counterpart to another woman in the group. The girls talked and talked and asked question after question, and all the men had to do was stand in the back and not say anything. Harry counted his blessings, praised the inquisitive passion of all these girls, and shared a few winks and nudges with Louis when one of the women referred to him as such a lovely, patient, husband.

The tour started in the main church building and Harry remembered this area the most. The room was wide and spacious with beautifully high ceilings, on them were intricate pictures - stars and snakes and sunbursts. If the night sky were white and the stars were gold, it would look like this. Down each side, between milky stone pillars, were alcoves filled with fantastic religious paintings. Harry spotted the angel he remembered, just as gracious as the last time. He pointed it out to Louis with a wordless finger. Louis looked, smiled, and said, “Looks like you a bit.”

“Does it?” Harry asked in a quiet voice. That wasn’t why he’d pointed it out.

“He’s got your curls.”

“Huh,” The angel did as Harry now realised. But he couldn’t see himself in the face or body. The angel was more poetic and pretty than Harry had ever felt in a mirror.

Their luck continued, it seemed. Once they’d covered the church, seen all the paintings and the altar, their tour took them out to the courtyard and straight to the refectory. Art was the agenda and Harry and Louis and their team of women had all come for the main event - The Last Supper.

The room that homed it was bare. The walls were all a greying shade of white, tall and slightly uneven like they’d been made of mud pressed by hands. Somewhere in the years since being built, the room had stopped being used as a place for the men of this church to eat together. There were no tables or chairs left, just the seldom scuff along the walls from where they’d sat before.

The group collected around the painted wall, staring up at the mural in one aweing wave. The Last Supper covered the entirety of the end wall. Harry could imagine how once the room would have felt alive, an orchestra of tinkering cutlery. How this painting of Jesus and his twelve disciples would have once melted into the colours of robes moving about the room, a reflection of food being shared.

Now the painting seemed a little sadder, sat in a room stripped of its colour and community. The refectory had been emptied for these tours, a rope barrier before the mural. Only thirteen people could be seen eating in this room now and it felt unlucky.

“What do you think we’re looking for?” Louis asked. He’d moved them a step away from the group, furthest from the mural so they could talk in hushed voices.

Harry thought for a moment, squinting up at the picture in hope that it would become obvious, “Um… I don’t know yet. I can’t think of what a compass has to do with this painting. Let me think.”

Harry kept staring at the painting, scrunching his mouth into a knot. He took a step closer to the painting, shifting into the middle of the girls. A slight one with honey coloured hair moved out of the way, though her hand lingered on Harry’s upper arm a touch too long. He curled away from the touch ever so slightly, politely, and tried to avoid her rejected expression.

He tried to remember what the letter had said as he attempted to connect a compass to the painting - an odd match. Harry had the last paragraph memorised by now, he’d swallowed his red thoughts on the plane by reading it in Louis’ note again and again and again.

 

**_I have left another letter where the serpent eats a praying man. You can find it where you gave me a ring of stars, before the twelve feasting apostles who could not see us. Look for a small way home._ **

 

“A ring of stars…” Harry said under his breath. He looked for anything that might resemble that in the painting. But there was nothing there. Jesus and his twelve followers were in a square room with square windows, and sat in a line. There was a distinct lack of rings and stars.

He checked their hands but their fingers were bare of jewellery. None wore a ring with stars on it.

Harry returned to Louis, confused thoughts in tow. 

“I can’t work it out,” He whispered, trying to keep a nonchalant face, “I assumed we’re looking for a literal ring of stars, whatever that means.”

Louis pulled his scrap of paper from his pocket, scribbles from the letter. He held the note just outside his pocket, quietly glancing down in measured doses before patting it back into his trousers.

“No… I think you’re right…” Louis wavered off, looking around the rest of the room, “Though… It says before the twelve apostles… We ought to look before it… In front of it, you know?”

Harry followed his gaze and looked around the other bare walls. They were empty though, unbearably so.

“There’s nothing here…” Harry responded, eyeing up the blank walls, the plain stone ground. He looked for secret hideaways, for any cracks that looked a little too calculated. Nothing.

They sighed in unison.

“I don’t…” Louis turned back to the mural feigning interest in it like the rest of their group, though his shoulders were a little too slumped, “There’s nowhere to hide anything here.”

Harry had come to the same conclusion and hummed in response as he bit his thumb nail. This room was simply four walls hosting a mural. Nothing more, nothing less.

The rest of the group had taken their turns ogling the painting, moving around to each look at it as close as allowed and then step back and view the whole thing. Harry and Louis staked their place behind them in silent frustration, Harry biting his nails in thought and Louis standing with crossed arms. The need to figure it out before they were escorted out loomed as a dark nervous buzz. 

Harry pierced the walls with his eyes, intent on putting all the pieces together. He tried to think like Da Vinci, imagine plotting these clues. 

But his mind drew blank, empty as this room that had lost its furnishings.

An idea.

“What if it was in the furniture that used to be here… Priests used to eat in here, there would have been tables, chairs, who knows…”

A sad, deflating idea.

Harry’s shoulders slumped to meet Louis’. 

“But that means…” Louis sighed, “It’s gone. We missed it.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. He wanted to run around the room and scramble at the wall, pull at cracks, search every inch. But he couldn’t. They were restrained by curious eyes. Eyes that would see him a madman.

Harry loomed silently at the back of the group and waited for them to leave. He noted how failure tasted, like the room, cool and grey and musty.

  
  


Harry sat in one of the pews, three rows back on the right. He dug his foot into the seat in front, the wood making low dunking sounds as he kicked it around. His eyes flicked around the space in front of him, deep in thought.

Louis sat next to him, dutifully silent and leaning far back into his seat like he was waiting for Harry to talk.

Harry wasn’t ready to talk, though, favouring swimming in a pool of sombre thoughts. This was it, he thought, time to go home. He was done, through. Raphael had died for nothing. He’d have to go home and try to finish his studies, forget the way Louis’ hands felt in his hair.

He’d come all this way, but he’d have to go before anything had truly felt like it had started. He’d have to pick himself up and walk out those doors, down those front steps and back to his regular, insulated life. His boring one.

Harry flared his nostrils in an attempt to quell his frustration at all the memories and discoveries he hadn’t made yet. He breathed out a sigh and brought himself back to the present. He stared at his hands and recalled how he’d got here.

Their tour had ended a few minutes earlier and the whispering excitement of the group had slowly dwindled until they were the last ones in the church.

“May I pray?” Louis had asked their guide as everyone was leaving.

Their guide had simply nodded.

Harry looked up from his hands and scanned the walls around them. His eyes were searching. They fell on Louis.

Louis was still silent beside him. His head was tilted back, eyes facing straight forwards. He looked bored, or contemplative - Harry couldn’t tell. But he didn’t look like he was praying.

“Are you even religious?” He asked eventually.

Louis shook his head, “No, not really.”

“Oh.”

“I just wanted to think.”

He didn’t offer more of an answer, instead asking Harry, “Are you?”

Harry thought for a moment. He considered the God he’d grown up knowing and compared him to the one he’d gotten to know through his studies - the one Da Vinci would have known. Where Da Vinci’s God was commanding and powerful and made churches the lawmakers, Harry’s had been a quiet, far away figure to whisper to on the darkest of nights.

“I don’t know… There might be someone, something, bigger than us. But organised religion, churches, they’ve caused as much harm as they have good. I think my God is different to the one they pray to here.”

Louis kept looking forward. He blinked at Harry’s words. There was a short pause and then he shifted, sat up a little more, “I understand that. I think. Their churches are beautiful though.”

Harry hummed.

“And,” Louis stood up and took a step into the aisle. He leaned over the seats so he could still keep his voice low and near Harry’s ear, “They’re nice to be in when you’re alone, too. There’s so much you can do.”

Louis walked up to the altar, jumped the short gate protecting it, and pretended to be a priest, holding his hands in little prayers and charading an empowered speech. 

It was utterly inappropriate and yet Harry couldn’t help but let out a little chuff. He could see how Louis was smiling, trying to get Harry to do the same. Acting out for his benefit, his approval. Trying to turn his mood.

Harry shuffled out from his seat and walked to Louis, whose hands were extended for him. The gate, only three feet tall, caught on his trousers. Harry quietly shook his leg away and then lifted his hands. Louis took them into his and embraced them softly.

“All powerful God,” Louis started, his voice hushed but emphatic like commanding priest. Careful to not actually disturb any wandering ears that might call him sacrilegious, “I pray that you take this man and give him the answers to these clues.”

His tone became more conversational as he continued, his closed eyes lifted to the roof, “You see God, I don’t want to give up and go home just yet. Harry just looks so sad and I can’t have that. It doesn’t suit his pretty face. You should know, shouldn’t you?” 

Harry hid a smile by looking at the floor.

Louis kept talking, “And I mean, why are these clues such a pain any way? Can’t you send a sign or work some magic or something? Help a man out here? This shouldn’t be so hard, Harry’s already had enough tragedy with me and all my nonsense. I don’t want to have to send him home already, although he is running me out of money with all these fancy hotels and plane trips-“ Louis caught Harry’s eye and winked, before he looked back to the ceiling and Harry looked at their hands- “I’m just asking for a little help here. Just a…”

Louis’ voice wavered off.

Harry, in the sudden silence, glanced up at Louis’ face. He waited for him to continue, to keep turning their deflation into fun, but his face was blank. It was turned to the ceiling still, but his eye were open. They shone, glossy in the light streaming down.

“Look,” Louis said breathlessly. 

Harry followed his eyes up to the ceiling and slowly he smiled, wide and excited.

They were stood under the dome, almost exactly. It lifted up into the sky right above them in warm, glowing light. At the very top, ever so modestly, was a perfect ring of little circular windows. Bright blue sky light streamed through to create cylinders of turning dust.

“A ring of stars,” Harry said. His voice was almost a whisper, breathy and amazed.

Louis squeezed his hands. 

Their eyes met and Louis was grinning, bright and open, “Maybe I ought to start believing, huh.”

Louis immediately looked around. Harry watched as he seemed to scramble, jump even. His fingers splayed out like he was going to grab something as he turned in his shoes.

“Well come on!” Louis exclaimed to Harry’s dumbfounded face, jumping him into gear to look around too. 

Harry looked around him, at the ceiling around the windows, on the walls, on the floor, along the fence that surrounded them. He’d made it back to Louis before he realised he didn’t know what he was looking for.

Louis, however, was like a sniffer dog. His hands were on the altar before them, gripping every inch to pull at all the details. The altar was a bulking slab of marble, engraved with flowery swirls. Louis poked around all the edges, he moved the sheet of cloth over it, lifting the dripping candles as he went, and circled the entire outside edge. 

“Help me move it,” Louis said, grabbing one side of the table and motioning Harry to take the other.

Harry glanced around. They were still alone. Like this was meant to be. 

He mentally crossed his heart and grabbed the altar edge.

They lifted. The alter didn’t budge. The marble far too heavy for just the two of them. They strained themselves, heaving with both arms, but it would not move.

Harry tilted his head to the side, motioning to Louis, and they tried to swivel the table instead. 

Still, it would not move.

If they weren’t in a church, Harry would have sworn.

“Fuck,” Louis said under his breath.

Harry choked back a laugh and Louis stood back and wiped his brow, swaying in new ideas. 

Harry kept looking. He was inspired by Louis’ fevered spirit. He began to search the underside of the table’s edge, tucked away below the hanging cloth. His fingers trailed where he looked, but there were only knicks and scratches.

“Maybe down here,” Louis offered, pointing at the base. The altar was on a small stage. There was only one small step around the outside of the fence and it had a protruding lip at the top of it. 

They hurried back over the fence and bolted down at the same time, almost bumping heads.

“Holy…” Louis uttered as he shook Harry’s arm so excitedly his whole body shook with it.

Harry looked right up at the base of the lip.

“F.M.” He said, reading the tiny script scratched neatly into the step.  Francesco Melzi. Next to it was a perfectly horizontal line that met a tiny star. A shooting star going right.

Louis tapped on the stone under the step. It clunked with a solid rap.

“Hm,” Louis hummed to himself.

Harry reached out his own fingers and searched for chips in the stone, any edges to pull at. There were none, but in Harry’s excitement, he couldn’t feel disappointed. Instead, he just kept looking.

He spread his reach and checked the wood further and further from the inscription. When nothing gave way Harry sat back on his knees and looked at the step, turning his head to the side like that might help.

“The star,” Louis thought aloud, “That… star…”

Harry looked at the star, deciphering Louis’ words. 

“The star…?” He repeated back.

Louis bit his knuckle.

The doors to the church creaked open and the boys jumped up.

Louis swatted at his pockets, an awkward cough escaping him.

They both turned to find an old woman, bent like a twig, shuffle to one of the pews. She didn’t look up.

“What now?” Louis whispered, watching as the woman pulled out her rosary. Under her shawl, her eyes were spacey. Crinkled and far away.

“We keep trying,” Harry whispered back, his eyes on the woman too, “We just need to figure out how to follow this clue.”

Louis was silent for a moment and then Harry felt a finger graze his elbow, “Follow it.”

Harry turned to face his words and his expression turned like clockwork too as he grasped what Louis was saying.

“Follow it,” Harry repeated, “Of course.”

Harry pointed praying hands at the star and turned them to face the direction it was pointing.

The woman turned an ear as Harry took slow, measured, steps in the direction of his hands. With each step he would look at the floor and the sky, searching for the next clue. 

After five agonizing steps he’d found nothing so he slowed down to make sure he wasn’t missing anything.

Louis waltzed right past him, assured as ever, straight to the wall Harry was facing. His hands touched the wall as he searched, Harry watching on from his one hovering foot.

“Here,” Louis said nonchalantly. Though he flashed a smile, clearly teasing.

Harry rushed over as quietly as possible. 

“Look, another star,” Louis continued, pointing at an exact replica of the shooting star they’d just found, a foot from the floor. Only this one was pointed more to the ground, Southeast on a compass.

Louis swivelled on his foot and started walking to the wall on the opposite side of the church, a little further towards the doors at the back.

Harry watched as Louis graced past the woman, seemingly not caring if she took notice. 

The woman, whispering to her turning beads, let out a speckled cough and did not look up.

Louis must have found another shooting star because he doubled back, walked to a pillar only two metres from Harry. Louis mouthed a hello and looked up and down the pillar.

This star was right near the ground, a small knick of someone’s shoe to untrained eyes. Louis bent right now as he calculated his next direction. This time Harry followed.

They walked in tandem, a bright nervous excitement bubbling in the millimetres between them. This tiny star lead them right to the back of the church, just to the right of the doors. They started to look for the next star, crouched on their knees, when a noise came behind them.

The woman was shifting out of her pew, turning to walk towards them.

They watched in frozen horror as she shuffled right their way. With each pew she passed, her hand made a steadying grasp. She was mumbling to herself, in Italian that only Harry understood. About her boy and his family.

She came closer and closer and the two of them didn’t move, didn’t know where they would even go. Harry bit his lip and held his breath. As if that would help.

Eventually, the woman came to the last pew and they were in full view. Two huddled figures with bewilderment slapped across their faces.

She lifted a slow, shaking, hand and reached for the door. Her hand landed on the beam just to the right of it, mere inches from Harry’s brow.

Then her hand slid shakily across the wood until she found the handle and pushed it open. It took some effort to shift the heavy door, but she managed. Bright sunlight came streaming in and her tatty clothes glowed the colour of beech.

The door shut and they were alone.

“Of-fucking-course she’s blind,” Louis swore.

Harry could only shake his head and feel his heart thudding against his chest.

“Let’s just hurry,” He finally said as he shifted on his ankles, achy and shaking, to look back at the wall.

High up the wall, a metre above Harry’s head, he finally found the star. From this distance, he’d barely noticed it at first, thought they’d come to the end of their journey again. They’d looked around the wall for what felt like hellish minutes but was truthfully only seconds. Finally, Harry had taken a step back and caught the tiny spot on the wall, tucked up against the edge of the very last pillar.

Only this star was facing almost straight down. Harry followed its line and found himself staring back at the altar.

Louis rolled his eyes when he saw this too, “Oh...no.”

“No...” Harry said to Louis, “We can’t be going in circles. I refuse to believe that.”

He wasn’t going home empty handed, not this close. They’d found Melzi’s initials and that meant that there was  _ something _ here.

Harry stood under the star and faced directly away from the wall, lifting one arm out in a straight line.

Harry glanced back and forth between his pointing finger and the star until they matched direction perfectly. Then, Harry squinted and looked down his arm like it was the barrel of a gun.

As his eyes focused, he found himself looking past the altar, just to the right of it. At the alcove behind it.

“There,” Harry said under his breath and we walked forwards with his hands still outstretched. 

The alcove, as they came upon it, was a cozy extension at the very head of the church. Mahogany seats lined the three walls that faces the pews. The wall was panelled with wood too, from the ground to a metre above each seat. From Harry’s perfect line, they’d found themselves looking at the first seat on the right-side wall.

It was totally unassuming, bland even. Nothing in comparison to the starry ceiling above.

Both of them immediately started looking for the next star, scared that they might actually be going in endless circles. The seat was impeccable, the wall behind it too. Their hands searched over smooth, glossy wood. Dragging over the edge of each panel.

Louis got on his knees and started searching around the base of the seat. On it, around it, under it. His head disappeared as he searched the wall underneath.

There was a low clunk and Harry’s head snapped towards the sound, right where Louis was bent under the seat.

“What was-” Harry cut off mid-sentence. Louis had come out from the seat with a panel of wood in his hand, three inches wide and five inches long.

“It had this,” Louis said, flashing Harry a single star on the front of it. There was no tail shooting from this one.

And then Louis turned it over to examine its sides and they found themselves staring at a compass carved into the back.

Harry’s heart jumped out of his chest.

He dropped to his knees and grabbed at the wood so they held it together.

The compass was a perfect circle, with six tiny clusters of laurels dotted around its edges, but it didn’t point north. Instead, it pointed South. With four arrows shooting from its centre but only a curving ‘S’ carved out. 

“What’s behind it?” Harry asked, and Louis ducked back under, leaving the wood panel to Harry.

“Just a hole,” Came Louis’ reply.

Harry ducked his head under to have a look too. All he could see was a shadowy square where Louis had pulled away the panel of wood. He handed the plaque of wood back to Louis and lay on his side, one shoulder against the floor. Without thinking, Harry scoured the hole with his fingers. 

He felt nothing but a circular indent in the base of the wood. Tiny splinters tickled the pads of his fingers.

When Harry came back out, face downtrodden with disappointment, Louis was staring intently at the compass carving.

“What is it?” Harry asked, sitting back up.

“I… This looks so familiar,” He replied thoughtfully as he finally looked up, “Did you see anything?”

“No. It’s empty.”

Louis’ mouth scrunched up, “Damn.”

Damn is what Harry thought too. Damn their running into dead ends, damn this church and damn Leonardo Da Vinci. Because of course, in the hundreds of years between this cubby being filled and now, someone had found it and emptied it. And they had no idea when that could have been and where to go now.

“Yeah,” Was all he replied.

The two of them sat there in silence, heads in hands and minds trawling for answers. Harry thought about the impending journey home. He rubbed his eyes long and hard. When he talked again, his voice crackled low, “Where do we go from here…”

It was more of a thought out loud than a question.

“Huh?” Louis asked, looking up from the plaque.

“I…” Harry didn’t have the words he wanted to say. He didn’t know how to say that he didn’t want to leave, even though now he had no excusable reason for staying. This didn’t feel like the time and place to spill his guts and says that the area between Louis’ arm and chest was the place Harry wanted to stay forever. He didn’t want to go back to not having someone that would touch him unflinchingly.

But the moment to say anything was passing, so he tried to form any kind of plea, “I don’t...”

The door at the other end of the church creaked open and voices came streaming through. Before Harry could think of stopping, his words were falling out in a jumbled racing puddle,  _ I don’t want to lose the way things are between you and- _ , Louis was pulling him up. Hard.

“Let’s go,” Louis said sharp and low.

Harry didn’t know if Louis had heard what he’d said as his words trailed off. He didn’t have time to think about it either because suddenly there was another tour group ambling over the threshold and Louis was shoving the wood panel into his satchel, and Harry was being pulled to the doors.

They ducked their heads as they walked through the crowd, avoiding the eyes of the priest-come-tour guide. 

As soon as they were outside, Louis was running towards the street.

“Taxi!” He called, waving to one of the cars parked along the road. Louis pulled them to the first to make eye contact with him and told the driver to go to the airport.

“What are we doing?” Harry asked, flustered. 

“Going to the airport.”

“Yeah, but why? What about-” Harry waved his hands in circles,  _ all of this _ .

“Oh, yeah,” He paused, “I knew I’d seen that compass before. I just couldn’t remember where. At first. But I do now. In Cannes. Hugo Baptise has it.”


	10. The Cat & Mouse.

Hugo Baptise was powerful man. He was of old money, unaffected by The Depression having sat on his assets and questionable affairs until things took back up and he could accumulate more. His money spanned the entire continent, put in the pockets of businessmen and politicians so that he could do as he pleased. Harry hadn’t known this before however, didn’t know of him specifically, but the name felt familiar. There had been a Baptise involved with the grant that sent Harry on his trip to The Last Supper the first time around, but whether it was  _ this _ Baptise, he’d have no idea.

There were two things to remember about Hugo, Louis said on the plane back to Marseille. He had a monstrous temperament, untamed by the money he could throw at his problems, and he was the head of the ‘Guilde Du Rouleau D'or’.

“The Guild of The Golden Scroll. They’re a group of gentlemen that collect and trade ‘historical artefacts of interest and intrigue’,” Louis quoted, “But really, they hoard anything and everything that glitters, and rarely do they pay the full worth for any of it. You wouldn’t believe some of the things they’ve asked me to do.”

“At this point, I don’t think that’s the case, Louis. You seem to get into all sorts of trouble,” Harry scoffed, “Shoot.”

“Well…” Louis paused for great effect, “I’ll leave it at refusing to rob museums of entire collections.”

“And this is how you found out about Baptise’s temper?”

“The first time, yes. But, and this this is important, Harry. When dealing with men as powerful as this, you must always keep up the appearance of doing exactly as they say, whilst doing everything you can to undermine it.”

“How do you do that?”

“You give them forgeries,” Louis grinned.

“How do they not find out?”

“You sort it out with whoever already has it. People much prefer to hide things than have it stolen. And they take a cut.”

Harry chuffed, helplessly smiling at the peculiar way Louis solved the problems that only Louis could be dealt, “So you fight criminal behaviour with a different kind of criminal behaviour?”

“If the ends justify the means. If it means I don’t have to take things from their rightful owners to give to the real thieves in this situation. The way I see it, these  _ gentlemen _ ,” Louis stretched the word, implying they were anything but gentle, “Aren’t going to stop if I’m out of the picture. At least if I’m in it, I can fuck it up for them a little. And earn enough to send back to my…”

Louis tripped over the words of his mother, “Back to, uh,” He coughed.

Harry reached out and held his wrist, stroking it with his thumb. He offered a condoling smile and said, “I understand. If not you, someone else who might not do things with quite the same values.”

“Yeah. I’m not heartless, you know.”

“I do.”

Louis smiled at that and squeezed Harry’s hand back with his other hand.

He continued, saying, “But the compass. He’s had that since before I’d met him. He has a cabinet full of compasses and I’d noticed this one in particular because it pointed the wrong way.”

“Backwards, you could say,” Harry pondered, “Like the letter.”

Louis was quiet for half a second, “Huh. Yeah. Exactly.”

Harry thought over everything he’d just heard. About the high class thievery and the peculiar objects this Hugo character must have. And about which of those objects were just a copy of the real thing. He wondered how they could possibly even get to the compass now, if it was actually the real thing - the exact one from the church. This couldn’t be the only compass to ever have pointed South, surely. It was such a small detail, but it was a strange one.

“If this is the compass, though,” Harry asked, “How do we even get it?”

Louis’ mouth spread into an impossibly wide grin. His eyes even twinkled.

“That’s the best part, Harry,” Louis paused for far too long, thrilled at himself, “He hosts one of the biggest events of the social calendar,  _ La Nuit Du Rouge _ , and it’s on Saturday a fortnight from now.”

He let that sink in, delighting in Harry’s growing smile, before adding, “Anyone who’s anyone this side of the channel is invited, and I saw Margot’s invitation last night.”

  
  
  


“And how do you supposed  _ you’ll _ get in?” Margot quizzed, passing Louis an extra napkin, “I’m the one with the invitation.”

She smiled at the end, always up for it with Louis.

“I was hoping you’d put in a good word?” Louis replied, patting away a pinprick of gravy at the corner of his mouth.

They’d made their way back to Margot’s straight from Marseille airport. She’d welcomed them with a all-too-knowing grin. Back so soon. 

Now they were having their first full meal together, a dinner of roast duck, and well on their way through a second bottle of wine. Louis explained the events of the day and their plans. 

Hugo’s  _ La Nuit Du Rouge _ , The Night of Red, was a red-themed party. Opulent and massive. And Louis wanted them to go so he could find their compass.

“Well I hate to be the bearer of bad news, pet,” Her tone became more serious, “But you know how your reputation has become. I can’t promise they’ll favour my word over the nonsense a certain you-know-who has spread. Absolutely disgusting, she is.”

“What did she say?” Harry asked before catching himself, “Um. If you don’t mind…”

Louis shook his wrist, “It’s fine. I wasn’t there, but Margot here was. It was that party at Phillippe’s,” Louis motioned absently to Margot, who nodded.

“She didn’t dare say anything to me directly, but the other women there were full of whispers as to why Louis wasn’t by her side. Some had been told you were… physical with her. Some had been told you had another family outside marriage or that you were perverted. Heavens, there was even nonsense about you becoming disturbed and killing your own… Well, you know,” Margot gave a resigned look, “It’s a wonder they believed it, so many different stories running about at once.”

“It didn’t matter if they believe any of them,” Louis added, “A scrap of gossip is enough to burn anyone’s reputation, let alone the poor northern man who never lost his accent. The thing that truly got me was that there wasn’t a rumour about me that was any worse that what any of them have gotten away with.”

Margot cut into her meat and took a bite, “Some people are just not worth their weight in horseshit - pardon my French - but you know they’re not exactly… Forgiving. Most of them have already made up their minds about you pet, going to this party won’t change that no matter what anyone tries to say for you.”

“I know,” Louis pleaded over a fork full of peas, “But if they’re going to listen to anyone, it’s you. You’re the only person that they know they can’t sway - you’ve got too many friends in high places, and you’ve never taken any of their money. And besides, Mar, I’m not asking to work for them. It’s just a party. An opportunity to show my face. Show them that the rumours haven’t burnt me to the ground.”

Margot mulled over this for a while as she sipped back her wine. She placed the glass back down with half a smile, “I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” Louis replied, clear and earnest.

“Pet. Don’t thank me until after. You’re telling me you want to walk into the lion’s den.”

“I know,” Louis replied sweetly.

Margot tutted to herself, smiling into her glass, “Ah. You do keep me young. So reckless.”

“Not reckless if you’ve got a plan.”

“You’ve got a plan then?”

“Well… Not completely. The start of one at least.”

“And what’s that?”

Louis paused for effect, grinning to himself in the way he always did when he was about to spill. Harry watched on with bewitched curiosity, forgetting to chew at the food between his teeth.

“La Rose et Le Poignard.”

Margot leant back in her chair and rolled her eyes. She let out a whiff of a laugh, “I should have known. You’re going to try and rob Hugo right from under his nose, aren’t you?”

Louis sat with his mouth scrunched into an impish smile. He said nothing.

Margot stuck her tongue into her bottom lip and shook her head knowingly. Then, head still turning, she sipped from her merlot.

There was a buzz in the air as the two of them seemed to have a silent conversation. Harry, trying to put the pieces together, swallowed back his food in one half-chewed attempt. He coughed and then managed, “Uh, what’s  _ La Rose et Le Poignard _ \- The Rose and Dagger?”

Margot looked at Louis expectantly. The stage was all his.

Louis licked his lips and looked to Harry, “It’s an antique shop just south of here, in town.”

Harry waited on, coaxing Louis to give a little more explanation.

“The shop specialises in art and furniture restoration…”

“And that means…?” Harry asked, confused.

Margot cut in, dropping Louis’ pretend mystic on its head, “It means Louis plans on getting a forgery made.”

“Oh,” Harry let out as Louis gave Margot a look that said she’d ruined his fun.

“I was getting there!” Louis proclaimed.

“You’re far too dramatic for your own good, Lou,” Margot grinned, “Now. While you’re planning on how to get into too much mischief, I’m going to go to bed before you drag me into all this.”

Margot pushed back her seat to stand and gave Harry a warm nod, “If he gets too much, love, you tell him okay? He needs to hear it. No point dragging a lovely,  _ innocent _ ,” she pointed the word right at Louis, “Boy such as yourself, Harry, into Louis’ games.”

Harry looked from Margot to Louis, who was biting his lip and looking down at his plate, “I think it might actually be too late for that.”

And it was, Harry was in too deep. Somehow. The buzz that hung in the air made him feel like he’d walk off the edge of the world with Louis. Walk into gun fire. Again.

Louis was dangerous. But he was so, so intoxicating.

So was the wine they’d been drinking.

“You two,” Was all Margot said as she patted the back of her chair, shaking her head to herself in gluttonous delight. She looked to Harry before she said her last words, “Harry, do make yourself home here. Any time, my doors are open.”

Harry nodded slowly to her words, and then she was gone, trails of  _ good nights _ dancing through the room after her.

“And then there were two,” Louis said, turning to smile at Harry.

“And then there were two,” He repeated back.

“Just the two of us for two weeks,” Louis said, voice a touch more careful.

Harry hummed back, placing his fork ever so delicately against his plate. The tiniest tinkle it still made against the ceramic matched the way Harry’s chest felt.

Louis stayed turned towards Harry, eyes turned to wine. Dark and wet. Chandelier shadows cast between eyelashes. 

Harry swallowed.

“What does that mean?” Harry tentatively asked.

Louis was slow to answer, not blinking as he thought. Eyes trained on Harry’s mouth.

“I think… That means… We do whatever you want.”

Harry tried to think about what exactly he wanted to do and he couldn’t look at Louis, staring at him like that. But he couldn’t look away. His skin fizzed. 

“I want…” Harry started, suddenly all too occupied by the way Louis’ fingers were laced in the table cloth. They were clasping, arched with an unnatural stiffness.

Maybe it was the courage in his glass, but Harry took the way Louis was looking at him, the way he was holding himself down to the table as permission.

Trepidatiously, Harry’s left hand left his fork and made its way to Louis’.

Louis’ hand was cold, the slightest tremor shaking as skin ever so slightly touched skin. Which was strange, because Louis looked hungry. His face was telling a different story to his jittery hand.

Harry lay a little more of weight down, closing his own fingers over the back of Louis’ hand to steady him.

Louis’ didn’t pull away.

And then the door clicked open.

Both Harry and Louis pulled their arms back. The dark energy swirling around the room pulled behind the curtains that lapped behind them.

It was the butler. Pierre, as Margot had said on their return.

He took their plates, nodding when Harry and Louis said no to dessert.

When he was gone, Louis coughed and then stood from his chair. 

“Come on,” He said, “We should make a plan for this party.”

 

Harry followed Louis to his bedroom,  _ their _ bedroom he supposed, to whisper plans for The Night of Red.

It started with Harry ruminating on the edge of the bed and Louis sitting in the window sill, the very last embers of day shaping him into a silhouette.

“Now… They’ll suspect me,” He softly said, knees tucked to his chest, “If they find something wrong.”

Harry, trying to understand what had just happened downstairs, looked over Louis’ edges. He watched as the hand he’d touched tucked itself under Louis’ chin.

“Uh huh,” He said.

“I think…” Louis continued, “Perhaps you might help me?”

“I can help you,” Harry repeated back, talking more to Louis’ hands. He wondered if they still shook. And what had changed.

“I mean, though, Harry,” He turned to look at Harry, his voice ever so small, “You might be the one to switch the real compass with the fake?”

Louis’ eyes were a little too wide and glassy for the darkening room. They were almost in complete night now. The moon their only light.

Harry quietly stood from the bed and took the three steps to the window Louis was occupying. He leaned against the opposite side, the open window sending a breeze and a shiver over him.

He reached out a hand and took Louis’ out from his chin. It was still cold.

So he wrapped both hands around it.

“Louis,” Harry finally said, a whisper, “I will.”

Louis didn’t say anything. Didn’t move his hand away from Harry’s, didn’t move into him.

He was unnaturally still again.

But is hand shook. Just a little, and Harry tried to squeeze it away.

“I will,” He repeated, raising Louis’ hand to his face.

To his lips.

Trying to make it clear that Harry meant it.

Louis let out a shaky breath.

And then Harry pressed his lips to Louis’ knuckle.

“I will.”

Louis shifted.

He didn’t pull away, per se, but his hand grew slack and a little heavier. And still, it shook.

So Harry didn’t let go but he did drop their hands to form a quivering bridge between their waists. 

“I’ll cause a distraction,” Louis finally said, “So you can swap them.”

“Okay,” Harry said, confused by Louis’ words. He didn’t want to talk about the party now. He wanted to talk about why Louis had gone shy, and why he didn’t acknowledge Harry’s kiss but he was still holding onto his hand. Tightly now.

Harry tried to ask, “But Lou-”

Louis cut him off, “I’ll stick with Margot so they don’t suspect, and then duck out. Yes. I’ll… I’ll cut the lights. Maybe. Or tip my drink on someone important or… What do you think?”

“I think…”  _ That you should let me kiss you. That you should let me pull you into me. Inside me. That you should tell me why you act brave until my lips are upon your wrist, _ “You should spill your drink. It’s less suspicious.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Louis’ tone lifted, he sat a little straighter and closer to Harry and he continued to steer the conversation, “I’ll spill my drink on the most important person I can find and then…”

Louis stood from the window sill and jumped to the bedside lamp, flicking it on. He scrambled in his bag and pulled out his notebook, leaning it on the edge of the bed. Then he sat on the floor and started scribbling as he talked.

“So we’ll go in with Margot and have a little fun, there’s no point of going if we can’t have fun,” He flashed Harry a dazzling smile, all engines steaming again, “And I’ll give you a signal. A… Um..”

“Ask me for a drink,” Harry walked over to Louis, forever his shadow it felt, and sat down next to him. He leant on the bed to watch  thoughts emerge in Louis’ book.

“A drink?” Louis asked, “More specific, please. I’ll be asking for drinks anyway.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at this beautiful, confusing, man. Shy or slippery, he couldn't tell. What games was he playing?

“What do you normally drink?”

Louis thought for a moment, “Whatever’s being served-” A chuckle- “But I do like cocktail. So sweet.”

“So ask me for something sweet to drink.” 

_ I can be sweet _ , Harry thought.

 

It went on like that for a while, until the room was cool enough to get under the sheets. Harry listened to Louis talk and tried to take in what he was saying, and while Louis was formulating their plan for the party, Harry was planning how to ask about his sudden switch of mood. Why affectionate Louis had suddenly been cool and shaky.

But Louis was himself again now, the same Louis that Harry had met the week before. The one who was naturally tactile, touched Harry’s arm as he caught a thought, and didn’t shake. 

Mostly.

The longer the conversation ran the more Harry gathered that the threshold between Louis’ flirtatiousness and shyness directly correlated the distance of Harry’s lips from his skin. 

Harry tested it a few times, letting his face lie closer on the bed to Louis’ sketching hand. He’d get approximately six inches away before he would shift. His hand would slow and Harry could swear he’d hear his breath hitch.

So that’s when he knew for sure. Something about Harry’s lips were suddenly making the man shy. Louis of all people. Louis, the man would rob the most powerful men he’d heard of with a smile, was shy. He couldn’t believe it, Louis was shy because of Harry’s lips.

Harry licked them. Smiled. There was a certain power to knowing this. He couldn’t help but grin a little, lean his head on his elbow and admire the fact that he could actually make Louis skittish.

That led to thoughts of why, though. 

A kiss was a stamp of reality, a statement that one had foregone plausible deniability.

Harry’s smile drooped. And perhaps it was the wine he still tasted that let out the quiet, breathy, “Are you ashamed?”

Louis looked up, eyes round, “Huh?”

“I- Nothing,” Harry refocused himself, Louis’ moody eyes a reminder that he was like an animal. There was something primal always hovering in them. They gave away whatever he was trying to hide. Though he wasn’t an animal that was skittish like a mouse. He was like a cat. A lion. Would swipe out of fear.

Harry didn’t want to scare Louis off.

So he asked about the plan and tried to remember what Louis had been saying in the minutes that had passed by Harry’s faroff thoughts. He’d hold onto his questions until Louis came to him. He’d let him move at his own pace. 

You let a cat sniff your hand before you pet it.


	11. The Call.

Wednesday 

June 19th, 1935.

Calais, France.

 

Her father was a voice of reason, his tone pleasant through the crackle of the hotel phone.

“My Sweet,” He said, “Don’t be like that, I’m-”

“But father, he took it,” She cut him off, intent on letting him know just how angry she had been, mulling about her hotel room for over a day now. Walking in circles, trying to think of where Louis had gone until her room seemed far too small to contain her anger.

“He deserved to pay. And now he’s fucking gone.”

She left for her balcony to stand over the bannister with the phone receiver tucked against her shoulder, the phone box in one hand and a glass of cognac in the other.

She downed the entire thing in one go, the ice clinking against her front teeth. 

Her father was silent on the other end.

Selene wiped her lips with the back of her thumb and then, with a satisfactory look down at the street, dropped the glass.

It narrowly missed a dark haired lady, who screamed and looked up.

Selene saluted her. Smiling.

“I’m going to come home,” Selene said through the phone, “I’m going to catch the next ferry back. This afternoon.”

“Well, now hang on, Selene, you don’t need to do that. Be reasonable. You know he’s likely run back to Margot, you know what he’s like.”

“And how am I to know where that is?”

“You don’t know where she lives? After all this time?”

“No,” Selene shot back sullenly.

“Well never mind. Let’s see here…” Her father’s voice wandered into crackling white noise for a short moment as he thought, “Ah, yes. Perfect.”

“What is it?”

“Go down to Cannes, I’ll be there Friday next week.”

“For Hugo’s party?”

“Exactly.”

“Why?”

“Because, darling,” Her father let it a long sigh, “If you don’t think Margot will be there, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Selene hung up the phone without another word, without a goodbye or a thank you, and left for the next train to Cannes.


	12. The Rose & Dagger.

Thursday

June 20th, 1935.

Marseille, France.

 

Harry breathed in the last whisper of wind, before the street was silent.

He looked to where they were going and couldn’t help but shiver. 

The Rose and Dagger was a small shop on a street corner shouldered by a hatter and a butcher. The metallic smell of raw meat baked in the summer morning as Harry looked up at the midnight blue walls.

_ La Rose et Le Poignard _ was painted on a hanging sign above the door, barely swaying in the stagnant air. Still, it creaked. 

In the windows, trinkets and furniture formed teetering shapes. Harry couldn’t see beyond the things in the very front of the window, the shapes behind lingering in strange shadows.

Louis led the way in, opening the door with the chime of a bell.

“Bonjour,” Came an accented voice from somewhere down the back.

Louis called back in English, voice shifting with a pale echo, “Hello! Where are you?”

The voice came back, this time in English to match Louis, “Down the back. I’ll be there in just a minute.”

Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dark and he found himself squinting at a dark room, two storeys tall. It was hard to tell how big the shop was, it seemed to curl and change with each direction Harry looked. A skinny set of stairs led up to the second floor, where paintings and globes and dressers flooded every inch of floor and wall and ceiling.

Around him, on the ground floor, carpets and tapestries hung along walls and over beams, forming narrow, haphazard paths. Harry had to duck to walk around them, beads tinkling against his brow. Clocks and sculptures and furniture hid between the fabric walls. Tucked wherever possible were the faded frames of age old paintings, chipped and leering.

Louis led them through the maze to the back of the shop where a lamp glowed on a desk. A man, too young to fit in with the things in this shop, was leaned over it, mulling over the insides of a watch with a monocle.

“Liam,” Louis said grandly.

The man jumped in his seat and looked up, his face quickly turning from fright to cheery. His features were squarish and lean and a short crop of stubble shadowed his chin. He looked a little tired too, eyes more pink than white.

“Louis,” He said, sitting back in his chair. Something creaked and Harry couldn’t tell if it was the chair or his back, “I should have known it was you, I haven’t heard English in here in far too long.”

The man, Liam, paused and looked away in thought, “Far too long. I haven’t seen you in months. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know. Busy. All sorts,” Louis flashed his best smile and then turned to Harry, lifting his hand to pat his shoulder, “This is Harry.”

“Harry,” The man repeated, reaching over the desk to meet Harry’s outstretched hand, “Lovely to be acquainted.”

Liam was distinctly British, his accent only slightly tinged with a drawl of French. He stood like he was British too, reserved and upright. Not slack and posed like the French.

Harry offered his greetings too, and then Louis was straight to the point.

“Harry and I have found ourselves in a bit of business, and we’re in the need of a compass.”

“Oh?” The man’s eyebrows raised and he immediately started for one of the drawers, “I have plenty of those, there’s th-”

“Ah, more of a very specific compass.”

Louis leaned across Liam’s desk, and his voice turned low, “Are you still… Taking extra jobs?”

Liam leaned back with an expression of uncertainty, “Oh, uh. I… Haven’t… I suppose not.”

Louis stood back on his heel and kept his voice soft, almost pleading, “Would you?”

Liam rubbed his brow, “Oh, I don’t know. I had a run-in with the authorities a few months ago and they almost found my workshop. Went right up to the door and everything. I don’t know if I’m up for it anymore.”

“I promise this is just a once off. I’m not in the business anymore, chasing greener pastures and all that. We’re desperate, Liam. Please. This is the last one, I promise.”

Liam looked around, as though the shop wasn’t completely barren, and sighed, “Alright, come on then.”

Liam stood and led them further into the back of the shop. Louis gave Harry an emphatic eyebrow raise when Liam’s back was turned. Far too easy to convince him, it seemed.

He took them around several corners, past a wall of unmoving clocks, and under a low beam decorated with hanging pocket watches. Harry, the tallest of the three, had to shift them out of his face.

Harry looked forwards, trying to see how far down the shop went. It seemed to twist and turn like the knots of a tree but he could only see a wall now, emblazoned with paintings of ships and beaches and victorian women.

Liam came to an abrupt stop and Harry almost walked right into him. Louis chuckled behind them.

In front of Liam stood a great oak wardrobe labelled  _ For Repair _ . Across its handles was a great, sturdy lock. Liam fumbled in his pockets, patting at each one until he tucked a hand into the one on the breast of his shirt. He pulled out a ring of keys with a small  _ aha _ and picked a long slender one, dark with rust.

The lock turned with an audible click and Liam opened the wardrobe door.

Inside, it was dark but Harry could still see the plain wood at the back and the base. 

Empty. 

At least, Harry would have guessed had Liam not reached in and pulled at a small round hole cut out of the bottom. The floor of the wardrobe lifted and a worn case of stairs sunk into the depths of the ground.

“After you,” Louis said, eyebrows pointed towards Liam.

So Liam went first. He climbed down the stairs until he’d disappeared into the black completely. The sound of soft footsteps rung up the stairs as Liam moved around in the space below them.

Then, there was a short click and orange light flashed on. The stairs lit up in a soft glow.

Harry could see a dirt floor as he clambered down the stairs. The opening was tiny so he went back-first, keeping himself steady with hands on the stairs in front of him. When he reached the bottom, foot tapping lighting on soft ground, Harry turned around. 

Around him, bare light bulbs lit up a tiny workshop. Long scrolls of blueprints lined wood-slatted walls, surrounding crates and burlap sacks. A desk sat in the middle, brightly lit with the two lamps on each end. 

On the desk were metal instruments of all shapes and sizes. They looked like artist tools, or medical tools. Harry couldn’t decide. Above them, a freestanding copper magnifying glass made a circle of concentrated light over a tracing wheel.

Harry couldn’t help but let out a small, “Wow.”

Liam chuckled, settling into the seat at the desk as Louis jumped off the last step behind them, “It’s a shelter left over from the war. Thought I might put it to better use.”

Harry walked over to Liam’s desk, letting his fingers graze over the peculiar objects dotted across the on the way. An old cracked pot painted white and blue and gold, a wooden mask with geometric shapes etched out, a blue glass jar filled with even bluer pigment.

Harry’s hands lingered on the last object, a cylindrical object sat on the very corner of Liam’s desk. Rings wrapped around it with painted pictures covering each one. The rings were out of order, like they might line up to create one image round the entire thing but someone had randomly spun each ring to distort it.

“That’s a map,” Liam let slip, excitedly, “Well, I think so. For a hidden burial chamber in Alexandria.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up to Liam, who was grinning back at him. Like the last puppy in the shop that had finally been picked.

“Oh?” Harry offered, “What makes you think that?”

“This text,” Liam pointed to an inscription around the base, “Refers to Osiris, the Egyptian god of the underworld, and the painting - they’re sailing through Alexandria.”

Harry looked at the painted rings, and turned them into place. Across it was a scene of several characters taking sail past a city towards a man with green skin holding a crook and flail. Harry instantly placed him as the Osiris Liam spoke of, one of maybe three Egyptian gods he could name.

“Have you looked for it?” Harry asked, placing the object back onto the table.

“Oh, no. I’ve not the time,” Liam replied, offering a small smile.

“Bullshit,” Louis added, finally joining the conversation as he picked up the artefact himself, “Liam’s just a bit of a wuss.”

Miffed, Liam retorted with a, “I just have all this to take care of,” He motioned to the room around them.

“Honestly, Liam, I really don’t think you would have even left England had your Grandfather not kicked the bucket and made you move over here.”

“I would have! Just... Maybe not to France.” 

Louis chuckled, “Why not France? It’s lovely here in the summer.”

“Too many… French people.”

They both laughed at that, eyes gleaming in the flickering light, before Louis got them back to the reason they’d shown up in the first place.

 

The compass, to match exactly what Louis drew for Liam and described as best he could, was going to take Liam at least a month. Of course that wasn’t going to do, so with much begging and pleading, Liam got it down to two and a half weeks.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect!” Louis said, grabbing Liam’s hands and lighting a jealous match in Harry’s stomach, “Just good enough, come on mate. It just needs to look the part from a distance. Whatever you can do inside of two weeks.”

Louis drew out a long, pleading  _ please _ and finally Liam agreed.

“Okay, okay. You really drive a hard bargain, you know,” He said, rolling up the drawings Louis had given him. 

“We haven’t even discussed money,” Louis interjected.

This made Liam pause for a moment and then thoughtfully say, “I’m going to have to charge more. For the time I can’t spend upstairs.”

“Whatever you need, mate.”

“I might have to shut the shop completely,” Liam continued, purposely trying to make Louis feel like the pain he was being. Liam was almost grinning though.

“ _ Whatever _ you need,” Louis quipped, completely unconcerned.

The disappointment of Louis’ nonchalance ran through the lines of Liam’s smile, “Oh, come on.”

Louis only smiled wider, “You’re not going to ask for triple? Come to think of it, I don’t think I drive a hard bargain at all. Your prices are just fantastic.”

Liam paused shortly, caught in Louis’ words. His hands held his scroll of paper mid air.

“So…” Liam thought aloud, “Triple then?”

“There we go, he’s got it now,” Louis turned to Harry with a smile and a thumb pointed to Liam, “Make it four and we’ve got ourselves a deal.”

“Triple is as lo-” Liam cut himself off as he realised what Louis had said with a small  _ Oh _ , “Okay. Four then. If that’s okay? I can do three. Or two. Or just, I really don’t want to be a pain. Actually, don’t even worry about any-”

“Four,” Louis jumped in as he reached into his satchel and flung a heavy envelope onto the desk, “Four is perfect. Exactly half is in there, half at the end.”

“You- You already? I…”

Louis grinned and packed up his things.

Liam looked at Louis like he was a puppy dog sent back to the shop.


	13. The Library.

Harry was introduced to football that afternoon.

It wasn’t that Harry hadn’t heard of football. It was just that private schools preferred rugby and cricket and polo and anything that might require a dress code of white. And football was reserved for those that did not go to private school.

Louis was amazing. He laughed when Harry said he’d never played himself, and he laughed when Harry clumsily swept his feet into his ankles. But he was amazing. Amazing at football and just in general, Harry thought as Louis swept his fringe and ducked around his waist.

The bridge into the overgrowing garden at the back of the lawn was their goal. It was the perfect size for just the two of them, small and close enough. But when Harry did kick the ball into it, overly excited and way too hard, the upwards swoop caused it to spin far up into the air and fly far, far back into the garden.

Louis laughed again.

It took ten minutes to find the ball, right at the back of the garden where the flower bushes huddled under trees, tucked under some soft tree roots. As Louis dusted off the dirt on the ball, Harry offered to make something else the goal. Something distinctly less…. Curved. Something that might actually stop the ball.

“Less fun,” Louis said, coming up close so the ball was touching both their stomachs.

He quickly dashed off before Harry could even bump the ball out of the way and pull Louis right in. Make him shy again.

So Harry chased after Louis.

They kicked the ball around until they were both sweaty, in equal parts from the running and the afternoon sun. The air had hugged them all day, patting their cheeks red and their lips dry. The drive back from the town had offered a short reprieve, wind whipping Harry’s hair into his face and making the sweat on his face cool.

Pierre brought them water and they both threw it back so fast that they spilled half of it down their chins. Damp lines made their way down their white undershirts - the only shirts they’d kept on after quickly stripping as they ran straight from the car to the garden.

Despite the heat, Louis just didn’t seem to stop. He was a whippet, zapping around the garden like he barely touched the ground.

Harry tried to keep up. Which led to Louis racing dizzying circles around his ankles, twisting them both around and around until Harry had to hold onto Louis’ shoulders just to stay upright.

They fell anyway.

Harry landed first. On his back. And Louis landed in a slippery heap on top of him.

Louis wasn’t anywhere near heavy, but his weight landed directly on Harry’s chest, and his hands crumpled up between them. Directly into Harry’s ribs.

Yet Harry felt nothing but giddy.

Harry’s hands, still grappling his shoulders, held him still so he could feel the way Louis’ heartbeat thudded. The way he panted so deliciously.

Louis giggled, sweet and conniving, and then he shifted suddenly and jabbed his fingers into Harry’s sides.

Harry gasped, half shock half delight, and let out a loud laugh. He writhed under Louis, twisting to get away from the tickles but not outright pushing Louis away.

“Sto- Stop!” Harry managed between jumping laughs.

Louis didn’t. He just adjusted how he was sitting so he straddled Harry’s waist and kept digging away.

So Harry had no choice but to hold his breath for just a second to snatch Louis’ wrists and yank him up so Louis’ hands were on either side of Harry’s head and his eyes were mere centimetres away.

Louis’ fringe tickled Harry’s brow.

There was a short silence as both of their breaths hitched and then Harry smiled, wild and delighted. He could see the shy curiosity swimming in the blue of Louis’ eyes. The way Louis bit his lip and stared at Harry’s mouth.

Another lingering moment passed and Harry whispered, “Come here.”

Louis’ eyes flashed up to his. They were searching, unsure. Flicking quickly between each of Harry’s eyes. His wrists shook a little.

Louis’ voice cracked when he whispered back, “I… can’t.”

“Why?” Harry pushed up his chin to make his lips more accessible, more enticing.

Louis answered with a grin and a yank. A soft one. One that made them both shift, but so that Harry’s hands could stay hooked around his wrists. He wriggled and, as awkward a movement as it should have been, managed to jam his elbow into Harry’s side and tickle him again.

“Stop playing,” Harry said, cautioning and dark.

“I’m not,” Louis said back, grinning so his canines showed.

At that, Harry was almost annoyed. Because Louis clearly was. So he shoved his entire weight out from under Louis and tried to push him off.

But Louis was a stronger than he looked, and he grabbed Harry’s hands back tightly so they had no choice but to roll over and make Louis the one pinned to the ground. 

Where Louis had been straddling Harry, his legs were now hooked around his waist like a sloth on a branch and Harry knees awkwardly landed against the ground under Louis’ thighs. Harry tried to readjust, shift out from his awkward position, but Louis was still grappling his hands and his stomach landed across Louis’ crotch.

Louis wriggled again. 

He dropped his legs from around Harry so they made a soft plud against the grass and squirmed his buckle away from Harry’s waist.

“What is this?” Harry asked. He couldn’t help it. This was bloody confusing. Louis was ducking away from the kiss at hand, was so obviously shy, but he couldn’t let go of Harry. He couldn’t stop playing, wriggling, pulling Harry closer so their laps grazed together, “What are you playing at?”

Louis squirmed again and finally let go of Harry’s hands, started to move downwards, “I’m playing…”

He rolled right out from under Harry, jumped up, and quickly turned from where Harry was gazing up at him dumbfounded, “Football!”

Louis booted the ball into the dense garden beyond the bridge, easily further than Harry’s kick had taken it, and chased after it until he disappeared from view.

Harry couldn’t decide if he was enamoured or annoyed. Everything about Louis said he wanted this too, that they were the same, except for the seconds before a kiss. Then it was all over and Harry would be caught in a limbo between rejection and Louis never, ever, bloody letting go.

He was like ivy.

Climbing all over until he’d swallow you whole, refusing to let go even though it was killing you.

Harry fell on his back and looked up at the sky. The bright blue was exact colour of Louis’ eyes.

He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them until a gossamer cloud blotted the sun.

“Tomorrow,” Came a voice. 

Louis. 

Walking back towards Harry. His face unreadable. Determined, maybe.

“Tomorrow?” Harry asked back, shielding his eyes from the sun above.

“Tomorrow, yeah,” Louis reached Harry and his voice was a touch softer, less sure, “I’m taking you to The Calanques.”

  
  


For the rest of the evening, until they were tucked into bed and Harry was trying to fall asleep, Louis was different.

The same. More or less. But different.

He talked and joked and giggled and touched Harry’s wrists and legs and smiled his perfect smile. That was all the same.

But it was like he was holding his breath.

Like he was constantly on the edge of a cliff face, looking down at the water, and taking those last preparatory breaths before the dive. The breaths that would tell you you’d make it down safely, break the water’s edge and come up fine. The ones that fought off fear.

But he never jumped.

Harry could feel it in the way Louis’ eyes lingered on him just a dash too long, his eyes too focused to be accidental.

He could feel it in the milliseconds that Louis’ ring finger grazed his wrist over dinner. There was a fine tuned stillness there, where Harry could feel the thoughts on the tip of Louis’ tongue.

But Harry didn’t push Louis towards the edge either. 

He didn’t push him to talk, clearly before he was ready. In the dim lighting over the dining table, Harry could see, bright as day, that whatever tomorrow held Louis needed him to leave it until then. He needed to be in his thoughts until he could talk himself.

So Harry let Louis graze his finger along him, he let Louis stare a little too long, and he let Louis have his thoughts until he was ready to talk.

Though that didn’t mean that the thought of what Louis meant by “I can’t” as they rolled in the grass didn’t keep flashing in his mind. Louis clearly wanted to, made moves towards Harry, didn’t let go, but for some reason he just  _ can’t _ .

Harry tried to not think about it too much.  _ Tomorrow _ Louis had emphasized, and Harry trusted him to keep his word.

 

It stayed that way between them, Louis in his thoughts and Harry trying to read them, until Harry was on the very brink of sleep.

It was close to eleven, the room was black, and Harry lay on his back with Louis tucked up into his side. Louis’ head rested against his chest and his arm wrapped across Harry’s middle.

The familiar swoop of falling into sleep had just started to tug at Harry’s mind. Halfway through falling and Louis’ whisper pulled him back up with a small gasp, a jump.

“Harry?” Louis had said, voice barely audible above Harry’s slowing breaths.

Harry cleared his throat as he came to, “Huh, yeah?”

“I can’t sleep.”

Harry pulled Louis closer, a comforting hug. His voice was low and gravely,  “We can talk for a bit. If it helps.”

Louis was quiet for a moment. And then, “Could I read one of your books? On Da Vinci? It’ll give me something to...”

Harry blinked his eyes open as Louis trailed off, waking his mind enough to answer a question, “Uh, yeah. Of course. They’re in my bag.”

Harry motioned over to the satchel sat against the dresser at the end of the bed. Of course it was black out and Louis couldn’t have seen.

“I’ll get-” Harry started, beginning to shift out of the bed.

Louis bet him to it, almost jumping across the bed and over to it.

Harry fell back into bed with a lazy smile.

“It’s not here.”

“Huh?” Harry replied, “Neither of them? I had two.”

“No.”

There was quiet for a moment as Harry contemplated turning the lamp beside him on, stuck between wanting to fix the problem of the missing books and not wanting to leave his half-sleeping state. And then a shuffle as Harry conceded and rolled towards his lamp.

It flicked on.

Louis was at the end of the room, kneeling over Harry’s open satchel. He squinted at the new sharp light.

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, sitting up, “Not somewhere else here?”

Louis looked around. They’d strewn clothes around over the course of the past few days, made the room their own. But on account of their lack of belongings they’d brought with them, the clothes were from Louis’ wardrobe. A haphazard mix of stuff he’d left in the house over the years, most of which were slightly too small for Harry. He’d managed, though. They smelled like Louis, after all.

But amongst the clothes, the towels, the kicked off duvet from the summer nights, there were no books.

So Louis shook his head, “No. I’d have seen them.”

Harry rubbed his right eye, still a little sleep-stuck, “I must have dropped them… When…”

He trailed off. The thought of his red dreams bubbled back up.

There must have been a long silence as Harry tried to push them out of his mind. Louis came back to the bed and lay into Harry’s side. Put an arm around him.

“Hey,” He said, “It’s fine. Sorry. You just sleep. I’ll find something in the library instead.”

Though Harry wasn’t sure if sleep would come now, especially alone. Him in the bed and Louis in some other part of the house. Both trying to busy their minds.

“Can I come?” Harry asked, Louis still tucked into him.

Louis nodded and then led them out into the hallway, flicking on all the lights. It was bright, but it helped ease Harry’s mind. Kept him in the hallway and not in his mind - not in the red.

 

The library was on the third floor. Almost right above Louis’ bedroom, but maybe one door down.

The smell was the first thing Harry noticed. Before Louis felt around for a light switch while the room was only lit by the crack of light from the hallway. It smelt familiar. Like his dormitory room and the library at Oxford, and the library he grew up in at his own home.

It smelt like his mother.

Which felt bittersweet. His favourite person in the world, but the person he felt most worry being around. The person whose opinion mattered most, and whom Harry feared to tell. To disappoint her. To cast a wider canyon between her and Harry’s father. To split the family with this man he’d met.

It smelt like secrets.

But then the light was on and Harry was cast back to this library in the south of France.

It was beautiful.

Every wall was covered in shelves, right up to the sky-high ceilings. They were heavy with thick oak, carved with floral swirls. A rolling ladder hung in the corner, waiting for someone to push it along and pluck a book from the very top.

Harry just knew it would roll smoothly and without a sound.

In the middle of the room, which itself was smaller than Harry had expected, were two chaise lounges upholstered in pink. A small coffee table sat between them, with a small pile of loose papers and fountain pen sitting on it.

Harry roamed into the room behind Louis and followed along the edges of the shelves, trailing his fingers over the mosaic of book spines.

He spotted a few he would recognize anywhere,  _ Wuthering Heights, The Picture of Dorian Grey, Dracula _ .

Harry stopped, his finger on the spine of a thick tawny book. With an impish grin, he pulled it out.

“What about this one? You like a certain Mr. Poirot from memory,” Harry flashed Louis the cover,  _ The Mysterious Affair with Styles _ , “And it’s got my name all over it.”

“Unfortunately,” Louis gave back, equalling Harry’s grin and pausing just long enough.

“Unfortunately?” Harry asked, fake miffed.

“Unfortunately,” Louis emphasized happily, “I’ve already read it. About four times.”

Harry couldn’t help it. It was out before it was too late, “What? And you don’t want another affair with a Styles?”

Louis bit at his smile, so obvious, and looked down, so shy.

His voice crackled, “I didn’t say that.” 

Harry smiled at that, entirely pleased with himself. Impressed even. He could spout quick games that got people on edge too. Just like Louis. Just enough to make them bite their lip but not scare them away. 

Thankfully.

Harry put the book back, shit-eating grin still wildly on show. When he turned back, Louis was faced away from him and looking up at the shelf just above his head.

“I think,” Louis said to the shelves, “I’ve seen Da Vinci’s name here somewhere before.”

“Mm?” Harry hummed, coming to join him at his side, “Da Vinci is your man tonight, then?”

Louis ignored the suggestion in Harry’s words, “I just want… I just want to know more about him. We’re chasing him around Europe after all. Can’t have you having the upper hand, you know.”

It certainly felt like Harry had been having the upper hand all day. 

So Harry was quieter with his voice. Careful now to not push his jokes too far, entirely aware that maybe Louis was making suggestions too - that Harry was getting too comfortable talking about Louis’ sudden shy nature. The one that spun the tables so Harry was dealing the cards. 

“Makes sense,” He said.

“There,” Louis said without a beat, pointing up to their right. A foot above Harry’s head, “The blue one.”

There were three blue ones.

Harry took a slight step back and tried to read the spines.

It was the second one, the exact title of one of his missing books. A different cover, but there it was,  _ Da Vinci: An Anatomy of A Polymath _ .

Harry pulled it down without question. There was no guessing that Louis couldn’t have reached it.

“Thanks,” Louis said, taking the book from him. He turned it over in his hands, flicking through the pages with his middle finger, “Do you know this one?”

“Yeah,” Harry leaned against the shelf, “That’s the same book I had in my bag.”

“Weird,” Was all Louis said.

“Bit of a perfect coincidence, really. I mean, it’s a relatively popular book.”

Louis hummed back, opening the book to the front page and then to the preface that Harry knew all too well. This copy didn’t have the same swooping titles, curly and tea stained. Just the words  _ Preface: The Man Behind The Veil  _ stamped out in plain black text. Harry had always liked that title, liked that despite all the book’s grievances it at least recognized that there was more to Da Vinci than most historians were willing to say.

“Is it any good?” Louis asked, leaning on the shelf too. A direct copy of Harry, just a little less slumped forward.

Harry thought for a moment, “Yeah. I think so. It conveniently leaves some things out but it’s the most accurate retelling of his life I’ve seen.”

“What’s it leave out?”

Harry scoffed, “Ha, well, all this,” He motioned to the two of them, “All the stuff about Melzi. It talks about the time he was acquitted of sodomy as though he’d been wrongfully dobbed in. But all these books do that, forget to mention the extra bits that, in my opinion, made him who he was.”

“Made him who he was? How?” Louis asked thoughtfully.

“Well…” Harry paused, rolling along the shelf so his back was up against it, “I don’t think there would have been a Da Vinci - the  _ great mind _ the world remembers-” He emphasized the words to mythicize them- “Not without Melzi. Not any of it. He was born a bastard, rich father, no-name mother. A bastard who preferred men in Renaissance Italy, where that was punishable by death. He was always going to be an outsider. I can’t help but think that the things that made him different were what made him great. He questioned religion and science and entire world around him, because the entire world around him was cruel to people like him.”

Louis closed the book.

Harry rolled his head to look over at him.

“I like that,” Louis said quietly. And then, with a smile, he added, “Sounds like someone I know.”

_ You _ , Harry thought,  _ Someone like you _ .

It felt like something should have happened then.

It didn’t.

Louis looked down at the book and Harry looked at Louis.

Then Harry yawned. Couldn’t help it.

And Louis looked at Harry and Harry squeezed his eyes shut with a smile, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Louis replied, stroking Harry’s shoulder, “Bed, though. Come on.”

So Louis led them back to their bed and Harry didn’t even have time to think before he was asleep.

  
  
  


Harry woke to a warm glow.

Not the sun, he found as he finally pried an eye open. 

Louis’ lamp.

Under to it, Louis was snoring ever so slightly with his hand over his heart and the book tucked quietly underneath.

Harry smiled to himself and pulled the book out from Louis’ hand. A good portion of the pages were bent awkwardly out of shape, squashed up against Louis’ chest, so Harry pressed them back as well as he could and placed the book over on the bedside table.

He’d grown used sharing a bed with Louis now. Grown used to the flutter of an eyelash against his shoulder, and a wisp of hair against his lip, and the tiny touches that greeted him as he’d slowly came to and realised Louis was always curled around him. His hands always around his middle.

During all these nights, when a flash of red would wake him, Harry would tuck Louis’ hair away and shift so he could feel his eyelashes against his cheek instead.

And after that, he’d sweep his fingers along Louis’ back, drawing pictures of what it would look like if they were laying exactly like this but kissing instead.

At first he’d been shy about it, touching this sleeping man. He’d felt like he was doing something he shouldn’t, touching him without permission. And he was, he supposed, but it was okay because that was what Harry and Louis had become when they were awake.

Because Louis would graze his fingers all over Harry and put his fingers in his hair when he’d pleased.

Because Louis would start to rouse and would grab Harry’s hand and squeeze it. Or he’d push his head into Harry’s hand like a cat, his waking mumbles like a purr.

On this particular morning, however, Harry just leaned over and switched off the lamp. He didn’t know what time Louis had eventually fallen asleep, and he deserved to not have anyone keep him up all night and then wake him up in the morning too.

Careful not to disturb him, Harry carefully lay an arm over Louis and went back to sleep.


	14. The Book.

Thursday 

June 20th, 1935.

Lyon, France.

 

Green fields passed by the windows, flushed gold by the setting sun. The steady, heavy sound of train wheels against the track ticked by like clockwork. After six hours on this train, the sound had become a dull beating heartbeat in the background. Barely noticeable.

Somewhere, she could smell the coppery tang of crackling. It mixed strangely with the musty smell of her cabin, a single booth where two worn leather seats faced each other.

She flicked through the pages of the book she’d found. Small text filled the pages, surrounding anatomical illustrations of bodies. A man, a pregnant woman, several haggard drooping faces.

The book itself was boring. Dull. Considerably so. She didn’t care for the tales of Da Vinci and how he drew pictures of folded cloth for days on end just to see how the light changed, or how he designed strange contraptions for wars. Each time she tried to truly read more than a page, she could only picture the man whose book this was.

Harry Edward Styles.

The name had been inscribed on the first page, a tiny swooping text in the top right hand corner.

She pictured him with Louis, wondered if she’d managed to scare him off with her driving and her gun.

She hoped so.

He was tall, lissom, with a dark crop of curls on his head. And quite frankly he looked like he belonged in a Brontë novel.

She pictured him bent over this dull little book, writing little pencil notes on each of the pages, and imagined that surely he was just as dull.

His notes were the only thing she studied, turning the book in each direction to read his scrawling in the margins.

He’d circled a paragraph detailing Da Vinci’s childhood, where he’d been born to some unnamed woman and a powerful father, but raised in his father’s household. The author had described his childhood using words like ‘lovely’ and ‘privileged’ but that being a bastard child meant he was always on the fringe. He’d had to work doubly as hard as his peers to be taken in as a studio boy.

In the margin Harry had scribbled,  _ How lovely can a childhood be when your undesirability looms like a shadow? Even still, surely one would look back and realise the cracks that were always there. I did. _

Curious, she’d thought, was this Harry a bastard too? What would make his pretty face undesirable? Perhaps it was his dullness.

The entire case of Leonardo Da Vinci had never particularly taken her, not even with her gift of the telescope some years before. The only thing she’d cared about was that Da Vinci’s name was recognizable, and that meant that any discoveries in regards to him meant a good payment would be due. And her name would be infamous.

The fact that her father had gifted it to her had irked her too, because unlike her mother, he was the only one that somewhat understood her. It had always been said that had she not had her mother’s ginger hair, she would have been the mirror image of her father. Her mother used to complain frivolously that they would gang up and torment her, taking thrill in the way she would be left crying in her room after they’d mocked the way she’d cared so much about everything.

It was exhausting being around her mother. Always upset about everything, about why Selene didn’t have a group of girly friends for her to doll up, or why her father could be so callous and then flip around and call her crazy for imagining it. 

Her mother was weak. So sad, and so weak.

Exhausting.

When she was nine, Selene had grown tired of it and cut all her mother’s hair off. But that had only made her cry more.

When she was twelve, she could not stand it one more moment and cut her mother’s tongue out after a shot of chloroform so that finally she could have some peace and quiet.

In the afternoon when her father had returned from work and discovered her asleep and bloody in the bed, he’d told Selene she should have done it in the bathroom. Cleaner in there.

Which was why she’d hated that her father had given her that damn telescope, because they thought so alike and they both liked to play with people. 

And her father was playing with her. 

He knew she could not open it, and gave it to her nonetheless.

Every time she saw her father, he’d ask how the telescope was and she’d have to say that she didn’t care enough to find its contents. She was just so pleased that her father had gifted her such a pretty thing to look at. 

And they were thick as thieves, always had been, so she knew that they’d rob each other given the chance.

Better not to open it anyway.

Until Louis had run off with it and made her life difficult. Now her father knew she cared enough to find it and he was on his way to join her.

Louis, she’d come to realise, was the worst mistake of her life. Even worse than when she learned that a mother without a tongue could still cry. Because he was her ticket to getting what she wanted.

Sure, he was Northern and didn’t come with a bank account, but he was well liked. He could talk to people in a way that made them smile, properly. Not the toothy way they did to her, like they were nervous bunny rabbits. Somehow he was a better swindle than her, had jumped his station and had people eating out of the palm of his hand. So she’d gone with him and found that he was at least tolerable. He didn’t worry like her mother, didn’t find her bemusing like her father. 

He was chaste and kept to himself and let her play her games unbothered.

But it had been a few years and she didn’t want to appear as a failed woman. It would have made her father laugh. Everyone in fact.

So she’d decided to kiss him and ask to finally marry.

That was perhaps Louis’ greatest trick of all. He’d seemed so mild to her, too engrossed in his job to think about their relationship, when really he’d been playing a long game. 

He’d never intended to really be with her and had only been using her for appearances. For parties and events and anything that would require the presence of only the most wealthy and the most influential.

He’d been using her like she had him.

And she was not one to be one-upped.

 

Selene closed the book and looked out the window. Rows of bedded lavenders passed by.

She supposed that none of her relationships with anyone had been anything but games. Maybe that was just who she was, destined to imitate the way others were in hopes that they’d believe her. Not as loving as her mother. Not as charismatic as Louis and her father, not as smart either.

The scribble in the margin came back to her. She opened to the page it was written on,  _ Surely one would look back and realise the cracks that were always there. _

Perhaps on just this one account, her and Harry could agree.


	15. The Blue.

Friday 

June 21st, 1935.

Marseille, France.

 

The chain dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, it’s links chinking together all at once.

Louis stood back from the lock, wire in hand, with a grin.

“Done!” He called, cheekily and triumphantly.

“Good,” Harry replied from where he was hanging half out the car’s passenger door. The leather seats were too hot and sticky without the convertible roof sheltering them, “Now get back in the car before anyone sees!”

Louis waltzed back, slowly and emphatically and with a wild look on his face. The face he wore when he was absolutely up to something.

When he finally,  _ finally _ , made it back to the car and Harry had tentatively pulled his legs back onto the seat, Louis turned to him and smiled. Again. He’d been full of smiles all morning. 

When they’d gotten a basket of food from the cook and then stolen a bowl of fresh cherries right from under her nose, he smiled.

When they’d run out to the car and immediately pulled back the roof, accidentally smashing it against the back of the car, he’d smiled.

When they’d driven twenty minutes out of the city to where the hills turned rocky and tussocky, he’d smiled with the wind whipping through his hair.

And when he’d pulled over to a small chained off road, suggesting they break in and go this way to the Calanques instead, he’d grinned. Both devilish and divine. The way that made Harry say yes.

“It’s better down here, trust me,” He’d stated, “They only chain it off over summer because of the fires.”

“So what if there’s a fire?”

“There won’t be, I come here all the time,” His smile grew wider as he whined a, “Please!”

Harry was glad he’d said yes, because after they’d driven through and locked up behind them, the road curved over one last hill and finally he could see the ocean again.

It was gorgeous.

Limestone cliffs jutted out towards the ocean and tumbled down to inlets of water so blue and so clear that Harry could already see the shapes of rocks and plants that sat at the very bottom. Trees grew out of the cliffs in shelves, twisting and turning around rocky turrets to make a city for sirens. At the very edge of the coast, Harry could picture where they’d lay across rock and sing for passing sailors, dipping their fingers in the water and swirling the ocean like a cocktail.

The car bumbled down towards one of the inlets, where finally Harry could see a beach climbing out of the water. The road itself was all too fragile, layered with limestone that kicked up dusty chunks behind them.

But they made it down.

The first thing Harry said as he finally leapt away from the sweaty leather seats onto the white pebbly sand was, “So this is the Calanques, huh?”

“Yep,” Louis said carefully, pulling their baskets of food and beach towels out from the back seat. Surely their pain au chocolat had melted into strange flat puddles by now.

“And this is the place you were adamant to bring me to, huh?” Harry continued.

“Yep,” Louis repeated, already walking down to a tree at the edge of the sand.

Harry followed him.

He was curious. Curious as to why Louis, flustered in a game of wrestling had suddenly thought up a place as serene as this and told Harry - not asked - that they were going there.

Somewhere in him, Harry felt like he knew. This felt like a statement. A moment in the making. The thing that books built up to. But he wanted to know what exactly Louis had planned, what had kept him up at night and how this was going to play out.

So Harry followed Louis to their sheltered patch of sand under a tree, curious and giddy and biting at his smile.

He sat on one of the towels that Louis had laid out and immediately took off his shirt. It wasn’t the first time he’d been shirtless in front of Louis, but this felt different. Not exposed like in the bath after he’d fallen in Calais, not natural like when they’d changed for bed or woken up and Louis had played dressups with Harry in his wardrobe.

This felt almost childlike. Teasing and expectant. Like a teenager putting himself on show for his crush, turning his body to look just right in the light. Taller, stronger, more muscular.

But that was exactly what he was doing so Harry took it and ran with it, this strange new feeling of being in the sun and peacocking for another man. Warm and bright and anything but the nighttime escapades he’d only known.

It helped that they’d taken a forbidden road and had the entire beach, and probably miles of coast, just to themselves.

When Harry realised that he almost let out a giggle because Louis was up to something and Harry felt like he could see right through it, like he still had the upper hand.

“Why here?” He asked, wanting to get this show on the road, get Louis to say the words. Finally.

Louis, only fifteen centimetres away on his own towel and leaning back onto his elbows, looked out at the water. Bright enough to make his eyes squint. He took a while to answer, playing with the edge of his towel when he finally did.

“I, uh, this is my favourite place.”

“How come?” Harry asked, adding quickly, “I mean, it’s beautiful. But your favourite - tell me why.”

“It’s, um,” Louis thought some more. His words were thoughtful. Precisely placed.

“It’s the one place I can be outside and just… Be.”

“Be what?” The question felt obtuse but that was the mood Harry was in, fully charged.

“Myself.”

There we go.

“I get that here too,” Harry said, looking directly at Louis.

Louis managed to look halfway to Harry, making it to his thighs spread far out in front of them, “I’m glad.”

There was a pause before Louis added, “I think it’s important to find places you can just be. Get away from everyone, everything.”

“Yeah. I think that’s what Oxford was for me.”

“How do you get away from people there? ‘S so busy.”

“It’s more… In the books. I can occupy myself. I don’t have to pretend when I’m reading and writing.”

“Don’t you think that’s just a distraction?”

Harry thought that over. Truthfully, coming here did feel different to Oxford. Like he wasn’t deciding to swap in hiding one part of himself for hiding all together. Instead, he was swapping all of that for just being. Existing without decision. No deciding what face he was going to put on that day, just going without any. And it had felt that way since they’d made it to Marseille actually, since they’d spent days at Margot’s without more thought than when Louis was going to kiss him.

“Truth be told, yeah, I think I’m starting to think that.”

“Do you think you’ll go back? To Oxford.”

“I…” Harry was careful with his words, unsure if it was brave or stupid to confess that Oxford didn’t have the same appeal, that he was in well too deep already and was a little more taken by what lay on this beach, “I don’t know. It’s not the same. I haven’t really thought about it... Who knows what could happen.”

The last sentence seemed to hang in the air, twisting between hopeful and fearful. Harry couldn’t tell until Louis said, “Yeah.”

Short, simple, but it laid out that something could happen.

Harry wanted it to.

He wanted it to now.

Harry rolled over onto his side, held up by his elbow, and reached out a hand to Louis’ chin. He touched it softly, barely grazing the stubble above Louis’ neck, and turned his head towards him.

Harry held Louis’ chin for a long moment, just looking into his eyes - the same colour as the water. 

Louis let him.

Finally, Harry said in the softest tone, “This time, please.”

“Harry,” Louis said back, “I-”

He sat up, taking Harry’s hand from his chin and holding it in his lap instead. 

Harry stayed still.

“I need a moment to just stop,” Louis said, “And be honest. I’ve thought about it so much but there’s just no getting around it.”

“Getting around what?”

“I’m…” 

Harry held his breath. Louis looked at the hands in his lap.

“You just make me so nervous.”

Harry breathed out, “Is that it?” He smiled.

Louis looked up at Harry and bit his lip, “No, I mean. I’m fine. This isn’t new to me, I promise. I just, I just get embarrassed because I can’t help but shake when you…”

“Try to kiss you?”

Louis nodded, like he couldn’t say the words, “I swear, I completely fine. I’m ready. And then you get so close and it feels so new and I’ve never felt like that before. Not with anyone.”

“Just me.”

“Just you… You’re just so… You. You already know me more than I’ve ever let anyone else know me, and you just let me be… Me. I don’t have to pretend with anything.”

“Maybe that’s why.”

Louis looked at Harry expectantly.

“I mean, Louis,” Harry sat up, so they were eye level, “Your life. So much of it seems… Unreal.”

“Tricks.”

“Yeah.”

To be the person that made Louis giddy, and the first person he considered  _ real _ , felt like flying into space. It felt like every decision he’d ever made, good or bad, had actually been perfect because it had put him right here.

He had something no one else had ever had.

The real Louis.

The one that was more than just jokes and jabs.

The one that talked openly and honestly and was so, so vulnerable.

Harry’s smile twinkled.

He shifted Louis’ hand and placed it inside his, then settled his other hand against the side of his neck - where Louis’ jaw reached his ear.

“Louis,” He said, looking as deeply as he could into his eyes, “Let me be honest too. There is not a day that goes by where I’m not thankful you chose me to be the one you’re truthful with. I don’t know what I ever did to be here with you.”

Louis was looking right back at him. His hand had just started to shake a tiny amount. Harry could hear a hitch in his breath. And then no breath at all.

“I will treasure your nerves, and your little shivers, and everything you think is stopping you. You don’t need to be embarrassed by them.”

Harry stroked the edge of Louis’ jaw, “And if it’s okay, I can kiss you until the nerves go away. If you want me to.”

Louis nodded. Slowly. 

But surely.

His hand shook more.

Harry squeezed it, stroked the flesh below his thumb.

“Close your eyes.”

Louis did.

His hand shook more.

And ever so slowly, Harry leant forward and closed his own eyes.

Their lips touched.

It was so much more than Harry had ever anticipated. Louis’ lips were wet. Glossy and welcoming and yet so timid. 

Louis’ chin hairs etched shocks of lighting across Harry’s skin. Harry’s own nerves suddenly thundered into his chest, making him feel like if he didn’t pull Louis right into him with all his might he might explode into tiny, sparkly, bits.

Harry held the kiss there, though. Not moving too much into it, going too far just to quell the thundering beats of his own heart. 

He waited for Louis.

Waited for Louis to calm and eventually stop shaking. It took a moment, but it came when Harry squeezed his hand again and he squeezed it back and moved his lips against Harry’s just a touch harder.

It was even Louis that pulled his hand out from Harry’s and laced his fingers in his hair and then held Harry’s neck and pulled them both down to the ground.

Without thinking, Harry splayed a hand to the ground to keep them steady. Let them roll back safely. And then he moved his hands so they were cradling either side of Louis’ head.

Harry parted his lips wider, so he could draw his lips around Louis’ bottom one. Edge his tongue out.

The floodgates opened then.

Louis lips were all over Harry’s mouth. His hands were all over Harry’s body. His shoulders, his neck, his stomach, his hair.

Louis practically tore at Harry’s hair.

Harry felt warm and wet all over as Louis’ mouth moved to his neck and the heat of it all swept a layer of sweat across his entire body.

He grabbed at Louis’ waist and pulled his hips around to him. And then thought better of it, too much too soon, and pulled back from Louis. Gave him a small peck and a smile.

Louis gave it back, wide and flighty. He giggled and knocked his head into Harry’s chest.

“So this is what you planned, huh. Bring me out to some perfect secluded beach just to kiss me,” Harry beamed. Cheeky.

“I-” Louis said into Harry’s chest before rolling onto his back. He was half smiling, with a touch of apprehension, “I don’t really know what I planned. I just wanted to make it worth it. To make it up to you, I guess.”

“Make it up to me?”

“For backing out all the time, making a dick of myself. I don’t know.”

Harry grinned and bent down to Louis, pecked him on the lips again, “You didn’t need to.”

He pulled back from Louis’ face and grabbed his hand. Held it between them as he looked out at the beach, “I would have happily kissed you anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

Harry hummed.

“Hmm… What about right here?”

Harry looked over at him. He was grinning wickedly and pointing at his neck. 

Harry rolled over and plucked the finger away from Louis’ neck, replacing it with a nip of his teeth, “Uh huh.”

“What about there?”

Louis was pointing towards the shoreline.

“In the water?” Harry asked.

Louis didn’t answer. He jumped up and yanked Harry by the arm, pulling him out to sea. His eyes were glimmering. His smile was mischievous. 

Like a siren.

They tumbled into the water.

Louis splashed in with running steps and then threw himself in completely so when he came out, his hair was slick across his brow and his lips were dripping.

Harry could already taste the salt on them.

“Come on,” Louis called as Harry still stood knee deep.

He did, throwing himself right into Louis. Pushing them both in, the cool water shocking Harry so tiny bumps dotted his skin.

Louis grabbed Harry as they sank, his fingers around his shoulders.

And instead of standing and getting a proper breath of air, they kissed as the water lapped at their faces. Threatened to drown them.

Harry didn’t care. 

He smiled into the kiss, Louis’ catching his teeth, and only went up for air when the water got in his eyes.

Louis’ legs went around Harry’s waist as he stood, and his hands went to his head. They swept Harry’s long, water-flattened fringe from his face.

“Look at you,” He said.

“Look at  _ you _ ,” Harry said back.

And they kissed again.

 

They stayed in the water until well after midday and Harry could tell he was going to burn.

It was worth it.

After enough kisses for his chin hair to burn Harry’s lip, Louis swam further out. He went around a bend in the rock and disappeared.

Harry swam after him, paddling around the edge of the cliff that sheared down into the water until he saw Louis climbing up a small outcrop of rock.

“Come up,” Louis called down as he reached the top, sitting along the rock’s edge.

Harry quickly followed suit, hooking his fingers into small nooks in the rock and hoping he didn’t cut himself.

Their little shelf was perhaps two metres above the water, not far by any means, but it allowed them to look out and see blue in every direction. The sky above them spotless, the water below deepening out to navy, it was all so blue.

Harry knew he’d never be the same then.

He could never look at a blue sky again without thinking of Louis’ eyes.

Could never look at ocean water without thinking about the way Louis’ lips tasted.

He would never be able to live the way he had before, before this man had turned up out of nowhere, and made Harry fall for him completely out of the blue.

_ Into _ the blue, Harry thought.

Because Louis was blue, and he could take the red that followed Harry and change it, soften it to purple. He could mix his colours with Harry and paint a twilight sky, dancing between night and day, danger and love. Because he knew their relationship was dangerous, knew the names and the fists that followed people like them, but having each other softened the blow. Made it all worth it.

And that was okay by Harry.

He wasn’t just wading anymore.

Good or bad, at least his life had colour.

 

They played with danger for all the days that followed, delightfully and wholeheartedly.

“Let’s jump,” Louis had decided from atop their ledge. 

He’d grabbed Harry’s hand, and they’d counted to three, and then off they went.

Down into the blue.

Down into a week where they played perfect games and they rode bikes into the city, and where Harry parked his up so he could stand on Louis’ back wheel and sail around, arms around his lover. Without the worry of people looking on and seeing more than friends.

They went to a gallery in the morning, right when it opened so it was quiet and Louis could tug on Harry’s hand and kiss him when the coast was clear.

“Let’s get a photograph,” Harry had said, pointing to the photobooth on the way out. It was a squarish, metal thing, with the word  _ Photomaton _ painted across the top.

So they went into the photobooth too, added that to the list of spaces they’d made for themselves. They took photos, far too many, of them smiling and hugging and kissing and Harry even licking Louis’ cheek in one.

They left with them spilling out of their pockets, entirely ignoring the fact that they might have to burn them just because they simply wanted to. Harry picked one in particular, a strip of four photos where Louis was pressing their cheeks together and making a silly face, to use as a bookmark.

He told Louis this, as they walked through a book store and Harry picked out something to replace his missing books. A slim one on Egyptology, the discovery of Tutankhamun. 

“I like that,” Louis had said back, “Mind if I do it too?”

So they wrote X’s on the back of each of their makeshift bookmarks, and kissed them too for good luck, and then tucked them away in between unknowing pages.

No matter how hot, how sweltering their days of sharing ice creams and swim trunks were, the nights were always hotter.

Perhaps they should have waited, Harry thought, because that’s what they were told to do with girls. But they didn’t, because it felt right.

Because he wanted it and Louis begged for it.

Because Louis liked to be rough housed when they lay on their secret beach, or read books near the pond in the back garden, and he’d said that Harry looked delicious underneath him. That he wanted to ravage him when they got back to their room. Leave mouth-shaped bruises along his neck and his chest and his waist.

Of course, Harry obliged. He liked the way Louis left purple constellations across his hip, the way he had to squirm away from the bites when they got too much, tickling him in just the right spot where his thigh met the edge of his pubic hair.

He liked the way Louis would touch him until he was the one begging for it, whimpering for the feeling of Louis to just get inside him already.

It felt like he was a shipwrecked sailor, so dry of breath and starved of water. All he could taste was salt, a layer of it spurted across his lips from not even an hour earlier; where Louis had kissed it from him as Harry licked his lips and begged to be quenched.

When Louis would finally cave and give him what he wanted, Harry would roll them over and bite at Louis’ neck and make him pull at his hair until they were both left grinning and absolutely, irrevocably wrecked.

“Where did you learn that?” Harry would ask, sitting on Louis and panting against his cheek when they were done. Because his hands were splendid and did things Harry had never known of. He’d massage them into his thighs and move an inch with every roll of Harry’s hips until they pressed against his perineum and he couldn’t contain his orgasm.

Louis would laugh and say, wiping at the mess on his stomach, “If you must know, I have had my own encounters.”

And Harry couldn’t help it, nipping at Louis’ neck had made him territorial, so he’d leant back up and let slip a, “With your girlfriend waiting at home for you? I hope  _ I’m _ not up for the same treatment.”

It didn’t seem to be a sore spot. Louis chuckled, almost rolled his eyes, “You don’t have to worry about that, Mr. Harry. She and I were nothing more than a pretty picture. I only let her touch me when we needed to look the part. At parties and that sort of thing. Okay? As far as she was concerned, I was simply too shy to do anything before I was wedded.”

“Last week you  _ were _ shy,” Harry rebutted, glint of dare in his grin.

“Only because of this one particular curly-haired man,” Louis feigned nonchalance as he lit a cigarette, trying to downplay, “He just kept staring at me with these big, beautiful eyes and I couldn’t take it.”

“And yet now you can’t get enough of me,” Harry said. He grabbed Louis’ wrist and tangled his fingers back in his hair, “Or my curls.”

Louis took a puff of his cigarette and then sucked in the cloud above his mouth as he reached it up to Harry, pressing his first two fingers against his lips as he took a drag.

“Maybe,” Was all Louis said, staring up at Harry. Breathing out his smoke.

“Tell me,” Harry said, covering Louis’ hand in his hair with his own and coming down to breathe in the smoke floating from his mouth, “Did she ever get to kiss you here?”

Harry pecked Louis’ neck.

Louis shook his head with a smile, “Of course not.”

“Here?”

He sucked Louis’ clavicle.

Louis smirked and hummed his ‘no’.

Harry moved Louis’ hand from his hair, dragging his forefinger down his cheek before hooking it in his lip and sucking on that too.

“You like this, don’t you,” Louis stated, pushing his finger further into Harry’s mouth.

Harry raised his eyebrows and moved Louis’ finger to his neck, “Maybe.”

He moved on. Down Louis’ body, punctuating every question with a kiss or a lick or a suckle, until Harry was between his thighs.

There, he asked, “And it’s only me that gets to do this?”

Louis didn’t answer, just took one last puff, reached for an ashtray and leaned back into the pillow as Harry lay claim to his lower half and delighted in all the things that he had and Selene didn’t.

 

It wasn’t always like that, though, possessive and lustful and unchaste.

Their loving was soft too.

Like the times they’d stay up late talking about their lives  _ before _ , and the lives they wanted  _ after _ , and the way that those futures seemed to just match up perfectly. Louis wanted to make good of his money, lead a truthful life, and Harry just wanted to be himself. 

In those moments of honesty, where they’d whisper their fears, Harry would cup Louis’ head in his hands and kiss his forehead and remind him of all the ways he was marvellous.

He’d tell him how he was gorgeous and witty and smart and fun and how he had all the parts that Harry felt like he was missing.

“You’re so much braver than I,” Harry would say.

And Louis would say back, “You’re much braver than you think.”

And that’s how it would go, them confessing the holes that had been scored out of their bodies. All the ways that they weren’t quite complete. And how the other seemed to kiss those wounds, fill them back up.

How Harry was so isolated, stuck in his bookish facade, but Louis let him edge out more day by day.

How Louis was slow to let people in, show them an honest truth, but Harry just let him be, let him take his time until he was ready.

How Harry still had red dreams, but Louis was blue.

And how Louis had felt blue until he met Harry.

“You’re pink,” Louis had said, when Harry had explained his colour theory, “People think it’s a soft colour, and they think that’s a bad thing. But you show that softness is goodness, and that pink can be a strong colour too. Like the pink of sweets or tulips or  _ your  _ lips.”

And then they’d kiss, and exchange love letters with their mouths. And Harry would scoop Louis up in his arms and anchor their hands together until they’d slowly undress and come undone and he could rock into Louis like the tide washes into shore.


	16. The Mothers.

Tuesday 

July 2nd, 1935.

Marseille, France.

 

Louis had suggested they all take a yacht out. Him, Harry, Margot and the dogs.

“To spend some time with you,” He’d said to Margot over breakfast, “We’ve practically been ignoring you this past week.”

“With good reason, it would seem,” She smirked in Harry’s direction.

Harry attempted to graciously cover the marks on his neck with his hand. He felt somewhat embarrassed, not quite knowing how to navigate this foreign feeling of loving so openly. He thought of the dirty sheets in their room, and the damp earthy air that seemed to permanently waft out every time they opened their door.

And that it seemed to only be their room that wasn’t to be cleaned daily.

Harry had asked Louis if he said anything, asked for their privacy. But he hadn’t, he apparently didn’t care if the bed was made for them or not because the staff worked for Margot so they should know better than make a scene about  _ that _ .

Then, he’d assumed that Margot had to have been the one to say something.

Because she seemed to relish in the romance that was unfolding before her.

She’d smile knowingly, almost teasingly, every time she saw the two of them. She’d chuckle when she’d take a walk in the garden and stumble upon them entirely wrapped around each other, and then playfully skip away as Louis would loudly complain about her minding her own business. She’d even leave notes in front of their door about a restaurant or a cinema or a walk through the hills around them that they might enjoy.

Louis wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of telling her he had read the notes and even took Harry to a few of them.

So she’d seemed entirely mirthful when Louis had swapped his exaggerated repulsion at her little cupid arrows, for rewarding her with a boat trip.

She, of course, accepted.

 

The yacht Louis chose was perfect. 

Harry had made him let him pay for half, and begrudgingly he complied. So he picked out a modest one, gorgeous and small and just the right size for three people and three dogs.

They’d each carried one on, Louis with Francis, Margot with Casper, and Harry of course taking Penelope. 

None of the dogs seemed particularly fazed by the harbour around them, nor the small laps of water against the hull. Instead, they followed behind Margot as she set up her lounger and umbrella, and formed a line of sleeping pups under her shade.

Margot read as they headed out from dock, peering over her sunglasses at Louis pulling Harry towards the wheel and letting him have a go.

“It’s easy,” Louis said, offering Harry a warm smile and a hand on the hip. He held one hand to Harry’s waist band, and the other over Harry’s hand on the steering wheel.

It was easy, Harry got it straight away. Like a car, just much much slower. But Louis was pressed up against him so he turned his head towards him and kissed his cheek, asked him to stay.

Far out from shore, where the water was cooler and few boats neared them, they swam. After ten days of sunshine and Louis’ mouth, Harry’s body was parched. The sun, too hot and too dry, had made his body heavenly leaden, and Louis’ grabbing hands had made his skin delicate. Sensitive even to the gentle pull of sheets against his skin when he slept.

So the cold water was a welcome bed.

He could lie in it until his body remembered what it meant to be cold and wet again. Until Louis could hold him to side of the boat, his hand holding them up on a swoop of hanging rope, and cover him in glossy kisses. 

And until Harry could stand to return to deck and lay between Louis’ legs, his head on his thigh, and let their sopping bodies soak up the sun again.

Margot had joined them for a short time, starfishing with them on the water’s surface in a lazy, comfortable silence. She’d left, though, when her slight frame and unbleached body grew shivery and the dogs had mustered up the energy to look for her return.

She’d gone back aboard and closed her eyes until Harry and Louis were done rocking and splashing the boat with their bombs, and crawled back to lie in their own wet heap. 

When they did, and all lay in happy, quiet puddles, she pulled out a book and read from that instead.

“You boys,” She eventually said, glancing over her pages after a while, “Are something quite special.”

Louis hummed and stroked Harry’s sun-groggy cheek.

Harry pushed his face into it, smiling like a lap cat.

It was easy to be affectionate with Margot around, but her motherly nature made it a fluffy, soft affair. Every time they were around her, they’d link fingers together, and kiss the back of each other’s hand, and whispers things that made Harry blush. But they’d not reach the level of intensity that had become their norm. There was no biting, no tickling, no obscenity.

It was nice, though.

Harry imagined that this is how it felt to be someone like Gemma, to bring your partner home and be head over heels in the company of family. To keep your feelings soft enough to be palatable at the dinner table.

Gemma caught in his mind then, surrounded finally by people that understood him. He wondered if it could ever be like that with her, if he could ever be so soft in front of her or if he’d break her into chasms.

It felt like a chasm had already formed along the English Channel. Deep and swollen and in the shape of Harry.

Unfair, he thought, that so many wretched people existed in the world. That he had learned to fear his home and all the people in it. 

Unfair that Harry would be deemed the wretched one, and they would be rewarded with promotions and police uniforms and and laws built in their favour.

Unfair too that Harry could be wrapped in the arms of his lover and still be dragged away by thoughts and fears that his love meant so much sacrifice. Of friendships and families and homes and life itself.

“Are you okay?” Louis asked, “You feel off.”

Harry came to, and realised he was gripping Louis’ leg too tightly and all his bones felt tight.

He blinked a few times, tipping his thoughts overboard, “Uh yeah, I’m fine.”

Louis squeezed his shoulder, stroked his hair, “Are you sure, Honey? We can talk.”

Louis had taken it upon himself to start calling Harry  _ Honey _ four days earlier, when he was stood in front of their mirror inspecting the lovebites across his body. A ring of white had banded around Harry’s middle, stark and glowing from where his sunburn had tanned at the edge of his swim trunks.

“You’re turning the colour of honey,” Louis had told him, hands coming around his waist so he could perch his head on Harry’s shoulder.

“Am I?” Harry had asked back, still swiping along his little bruises absentmindedly.

“Mm mm,” Louis hummed as he reached a finger to a curl that had made its way to Harry’s brow, “Your hair’s making honey too.”

Harry had looked up then, to see the two of them slotted together and the strand of hair Louis was twirling around his finger.

He was right, Harry supposed, his skin had darkened and his hair had lightened. His chocolate head of hair had been streaked with strands of caramel.

But he paled in comparison to Louis, who wore the sun like a royal cloak. His olive skin shining like glassy sand and his hair bleached almost the same colour.

“I’ve nothing on you,” Harry had said, resting his head against Louis’.

“Oi, you,” Louis said, knocking his hip into Harry, “None of that.”

Harry smiled, biting his lip, and decided to just kiss Louis instead.

From then, Harry had become  _ Honey _ , and Louis had become unable to get his warm body unstuck from him.

On the boat, though, Harry’s arms had heavied and turned a shade cooler.

“I just...” He began, unsure of how to breach the topic. How to keep their day afloat when this topic should surely sink it, “How do you deal with it?”

“Deal with what, love?” Margot asked, resting her book to her thigh, her face creased with concern.

Harry thought over his words, combed through all his feelings, “All the people that would spit at the sight of this. I don’t understand how they can look at us and see anything different. Why should we be different?”

“Harry,” Louis said, voice thick with worry, “You mustn't think like that.”

Harry let out a small sigh and reached for Louis’ hand to squeeze, “I know. It’s just… Sometimes it feels as though the world was not made for us. And that’s absurd to me. We’ve always, always existed but it’s pretended that we haven’t.”

“It is absurd,” Louis offered, “But we don’t need to worry about them. We just have to build our own world and fill it with people and places that are good.” 

Harry hummed, “I know… I just think sometimes, how I wish it could be. Bring you home to my family, that sort of thing.”

“That would be nice,” Louis confessed.

“Did… Did your mother know about you?”

Louis thought for a moment, “I never said the words aloud, if that’s what you mean, but I think a mother always knows these things. Deep down. She… never asked why I didn’t bring anyone home. Didn’t mind that I spent so much time around Mar, and she knew about you,” He nodded towards Margot, who was looking back tenderly, “I think it just went without saying that I was different.”

“Did you want to tell her?”

Another thoughtful pause, “Yes and no. I didn’t want her to worry for me.”

Harry hadn’t thought about it that way, that someone’s response would be worry. Not rejection.

“Did she worry- Wait- She knew about you, Margot?”

Harry sat up onto his elbows, awkwardly bent around Louis’ legs. Louis stroked his hair. 

Margot closed her book properly, and slid it under her lounger.

“It was...” She shifted so she could look at Harry properly and kept her voice balanced, thoughtfully calm, “It was out of my control.”

“What happened?”

Louis quickly interjected a gentle warning as he tucked a hair behind Harry’s ear, “If it’s okay to ask.”

“Oh, yes, sorry. Did I overstep?” Harry asked.

Margot smiled and shook her head, “Oh no. It’s quite alright.”

“Mar,” Louis cautioned, “You don’t have to.”

She gave Louis an understanding look, “Love, it’s fine. Yes, it’s hard to talk about but it’s important we do.”

Harry, suddenly feeling rather sheepish, quietly leaned back onto Louis’ thigh.

“You say you didn’t want to worry Johannah, and yet here you are, worrying for me,” She chuckled softly, “It’s okay.”

Louis didn’t say anything to that, just kept running his fingers through Harry’s hair as he looked down at him.

“I suppose I’ll tell you all of it,” Margot said, “Louis and I meet in England when he was a child. Probably eight or so from memory. My family owned some steel factories in Sheffield, you see, which I visited often. We had several estates up there too. I’d visit those as well, to see that they were being kept in good manner.”

She paused and smiled to herself, “Now, this is important to remember. My childhood involved a lot of travelling because my mother was English and my father was French - and both had a propensity for politics. When one is so mobile, it becomes quite important to carry possessions that mean a great deal to you. So I became interested in collecting fascinating, pretty things. 

I’d spent some months in France before I was sent to England permanently for schooling, and had grown fond of it. So when our family left, I had a bracelet made to remind me of it. Oh, it was gorgeous. Twenty two karat gold, with rubies roses and amethyst lilies around it. It even had these three perfect little diamond vines that entwined together, one for each of us. My mother and my father and I. It was an ode to my French and English blood, and the love I had for my family.

Now, I wore this bracelet everywhere. For years. Even more so when both of my parents grew sick and passed. And then the war happened, and our Sheffield was bombed. I quickly made my way up there because the homes of our workers had been destroyed.

I ended up staying for almost three years to see our country houses used as hospitals for soldiers, and spent most of my time in an estate just outside of Sheffield. On the outskirts of Doncaster, in fact. 

I’d seen this one particular child, an absolutely tiny thing,” Margot grinned at Louis, “He was impossibly fast and never said a word. I’d see him sneaking about at night and was almost convinced he was a ghost.

Food would disappear, clothing too. Not much, but just enough to notice. So I didn’t mind, what was one more mouth to feed in a house full of wounded soldiers. I had more important things to worry about.

But one day, and I remember it so distinctly because it was the first time the sky had been blue in weeks. And it was the first time I’d seen the boy during the day. He came straight up to me, asked if I could take him to his father because he couldn’t find him. And stupidly, I had assumed he’d been sneaking in to visit his father and take an extra meal home.

Oh no, that was quite the lie. He’d taken my hand as I led him to a nurse and swiped my bloody bracelet on his way. I didn’t even notice until I was readying myself for bed that night.

I couldn’t find him, or my bracelet, anywhere. For weeks. I thought I’d never find it again.

Imagine this, Louis,” Margot exaggerated her playful scorn as she reached over and tapped Louis’ arm, “A girl without a family, in a house marred by war, and now her only connection to the lovely life she’d had before was stolen. Imagine!”

Margot chuckled, shook her head, “I kid, of course. But I was upset at the time. And I thought it truly over until I saw you sneak back in. Far too late at night to be visiting any father. So I confronted you, and when I found out the truth - that you had no father and you’d already sold my bracelet, I’d made you a deal.

You’d help me around my makeshift hospital and when I’d hear of something positively fascinating to look at, you’d help me acquire it.

Soon both you and your mother were my close companions. She’d tell me, Louis, all the wonderful things she thought of you. You were her favourite topic.

The hospital was where I met Penelope too. She was a nurse, and absolutely wonderful. Had lovely blonde hair, the shiniest you’d ever seen. And the most beautiful brown eyes. She taught your mother to be a nurse too when we were short, I remember them bandaging men together. I was never one for the horrific sights there, but those two just got on with it. Absolutely brilliant.”

Margot turned to Harry, pointing her story in his direction, “On the good nights, the four of us would all stay up together and drink hot chocolate and Louis would put on plays for us. He’d take my books after I taught him to read and memorise all the things he could, and then play them back to us in costumes he’d made himself. Out of bags and bandages and all sorts.”

Louis smiled to himself, his cheeks a touch pink.

“When the war was over, I wanted to move back south. A fresh start for Penelope and I. Where we could live in peace without her husband finding out. She never divorced him, but I understood why. He was an explosive man, who’d speak the most offensive drivel. I asked Johannah and Louis to come too, there were more opportunities in the South. Louis could go to a better school. Hospitals paid better too.

I think it was in the summer that we left. Yes, it must have been. I’d given Penelope some violets when we arrived. She had always loved flowers.

It was only a week before your mother found out about us. I suppose we’d let down our guard since leaving Yorkshire. We had a home together then, and a whole new life starting. We were unquestionably excited.

She came over with Louis to surprise us with bouquets of flowers - far too many of them - and this monkey over here had picked the lock on our front door.”

Margot chuckled to herself as Louis rubbed his brow and bit his lip to hide his guilty smile.

“I think,” She continued, “She was more angry that a boy of eleven might have to witnessed such apparent vulgarity than the fact that we were two women. She’d gone off the walls at him, telling him to run from the room and that he ‘bloody well should have not seen anything otherwise he’d be missing dinner for a week’.”

“And I promise to this day, I didn’t,” Louis added.

“I certainly hope not. And at least you haven’t gone picking my locks any time after that either. That I’m aware of.”

Louis rolled his eyes, smiling, “No, Mar. I haven’t.”

“Good. Where was I?” Margot paused for a moment before her eyes caught a thought mid air and she nodded, “Ah yes, well not much happened for the few years that followed that. But you’re right Louis, your mother was a worrier. Perhaps I should have listened… I don’t know.”

Louis reached out a hand and held Margot’s. He must known what was coming. She took it gratefully and Harry felt like he quite probably shouldn’t have asked about all this.

“About five years ago I was out with Louis and Johannah because Louis had just come back from Switzerland. He’d been gone a few months collecting pieces for some of the clientele he’d picked up over the years and on his way home, had  managed to secure us a Gustav Klimt painting.”

Harry remembered the golden painting in her drawing room.

“They were P’s favourite and I’d never been able to get one. So being ecstatic, we rushed home to hang it and…” Her voice faltered, “Her husband was there. And she was… On the floor. He’d beat her so much... I…”

Louis took over for her, “I shot him.”

There was a long, pensive quiet. Heavy and uncomfortable. The sun suddenly too bright.

Louis continued, “I shot him because he came at Mar. It’s the only time I’ve actually shot someone. Actually got them. I don’t know if I killed him, he ran out to the street and I didn’t check.”

Margot managed to finish her bit, “She wasn’t gone, though. Not yet. I had a few moments to tell her goodbye… At least I had that.”

She still managed to offer Harry a soft smile. One that said  _ I’m okay _ .

Louis thought aloud then, “That was what did it for Mum, I think. She was so much quieter after that, and you know she found it hard to be around you, Mar. I think it hurt her to see you and try to not think about it.”

“I know,” Margot replied, “It was hard for me to see her too. It felt like it was my fault Penelope had gone for a long time, and she saw that whenever she looked at me. That’s why I moved, the whole country had turned rotten for me. Couldn’t turn a corner without seeing something that would remind me of P. At least no one except Louis knows where I live now, and I can finally have some peace.”

Harry didn’t know what he could possibly say other than, “I’m sorry.”

Sorry that these are the stories that bring them together. Stories of secrets and fear and seeing ghosts around corners.

“Oh, Harry. Don’t be. You’re too sweet. These things are just a part of life, and all we can do is move on and find the happiness our loved ones would have wished for us. Be the strength they’d want to give us.”

“I suppose,” Harry offered without conviction.

“Hey,” Louis said, turning Harry’s head to face up at him, “What was it you told me the other day? Blue and red make purple?”

“Mm.”

“So the good things make the bad things a little better.”

“The good things would be great without the bad things though.”

“Hey. Come on. Where’s the man that said he could take on anything with me?”

Harry thought for a moment, twisting his lips like a toddler, “He didn’t know all the bad things that had happened to the both of you. They could happen again.”

“You’re forgetting something.”

Harry was quiet.

Louis gave an encouraging smile, “You seem to have forgotten that we still made it through, though. And we’ll do it again and again and again.”

When Harry’s face softened, but didn’t quite make it to a smile, Louis grinned and said all too sternly, “Honey, let’s go for a swim before I have to throw you in the water to wash that petulant look off your face myself.”

Harry let slip the tiniest curve of a smile.

 

They jumped back in the water. 

Louis seemed overly concerned that Harry was enjoying himself, sneaking up on him with wet puppy kisses and playful splashes.

Margot came to the back of the boat to hang her toes in the water and encourage Harry to tie Louis to the anchor whenever his splashes got her too.

“We’ll leave him down there!” She called, grinning from ear to ear, “Throw sandwiches in the water until sharks come!”

Harry couldn’t help but grin too. It was easier to move past the bouts of melancholy he had from time to time with people like Margot and Louis around. Because sure, they could share stories of how their lives were unnecessarily difficult, but they didn’t let those faze them.

If anything, it reminded Harry that sometimes he was overly concerned about the world. Too caught up in how easy his life should be and how unjust it was that it was not.

Louis and Margot just got on with it.

They made their own world and filled it with good and focused on that instead.

Harry thought he ought to take a page out of their book.

So he forced himself to smile and swim and splash Louis back until the smiling was actually real and Louis was dragging him under water.

  
  
  


“Do you mind if we stop by Liam on the way home?” Louis asked, as they sat up on the deck and snacked on the afternoon tea they’d brought, “So I can check up on how the compass is coming along.”

Harry was sitting next to him with one of the other dogs, Francis, laying his head on his knee. He gave him a strip of ham from his sandwich and shifted his leg with a scrunch of his nose when the dog smacked its lips together and drool flew about.

“Actually,” Margot replied, smiling at the mess on Harry’s knee, “I’d love to. Somehow I’ve never been.”

So when Harry had cleaned his leg off the side of the boat and managed to dry himself again, they sailed back to the docks and headed for The Rose & Dagger.


	17. The Secret Door.

There was a closed sign across the shop’s front door.

It was locked too.

But of course it was, because Liam had said he needed to shut up shop to get the compass done in time.

“He’s definitely here though,” Louis said, tapping the glass of the door and waiting for a response.

Somehow the street was still predisposed to be silent and windless, so they could hear no one was coming.

“Why don’t you pick it?” Margot asked, smiling like she dared him to do it just so she could tell him off.

“He’ll be in his workshop, won’t he?” Harry offered.

“He will,” Louis replied, “And thank God.”

“Mm?” Margot asked, her eyebrows lifting.

“We can go the back way.”

 

The back way, as it turns out, was much further down the street on their right than Harry thought possible. A good hundred metres away.

They walked past a menswear store, a grocer, and about three different families yelling at each other through their windows before Harry asked just how far they were going. 

Louis just smiled and winked.

They came to an old sloping alley, small and crooked, and Louis lead them down three steps before he stopped.

He was grinning wildly. Boastfully.

“Go on. What is it, then?” Harry asked, unable to keep the affection out of his voice.

“We’re here.”

Harry looked around. Old peeling walls stared back.

“Uh huh,” He chirped, not quite ready to give Louis the satisfaction of asking where  _ here _ was. 

Louis clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes with a smile, dissatisfied that they wouldn’t play along. 

“Fine!” Louis said, turning on his heel and walking to the wall next to them, “I’ll just have to do it myself.”

Harry looked on as Louis reached right down to a square metal grate about the size of two dinner plates. He hooked his fingers around the twisting bars and yanked as hard as he could.

The grate groaned lowly in its spot, not ready to budge.

“Need a hand?” Harry grinned.

Louis huffed but shifted so Harry could latch on too.

They pulled.

Without warning the grate screeched and flung away from the wall, sending them both falling backwards.

Margot snickered. 

 

Harry was surprised at how keen Margot was. How she jumped into the passage straight after Louis, not a care about dirtying her white summer dress on the mud and dust around the hole.

“Coming?” She asked, only her head visible through the small hole. She already had a swipe of muck across her forehead.

So Harry jumped in. 

Or rather, he lay in front of the hole and slowly slid his legs in until he had no choice but to drop down into the nothing below and hope he didn’t break his ankle.

The floor wasn’t far though.

Harry landed with a small plud on the ground. Dirt.

He wiped at his legs and tiny clumps of dry mud stuck to his hands, so he rubbed them together until they were as clean as he could tell in the dark.

Too dark.

Harry turned in search of Louis.

He was just visible in the block of light through the grate hole, just a patch of light making its way to his top half where he was running his hands over the wall.

“There was a switch here somewhere,” Louis mentioned, eyeing the dark wall as best he could.

Harry wanted to find the switch too, desperately, because he was facing a passageway that was swallowed by darkness. The only things he could see were the whitish glow of Margot’s dress and the back of Louis’ head as he searched. Beyond that, everything was ink black. But Harry wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t put his hand right into a spider web. Or whatever a spider had caught.

Luckily, Louis soon found the switch. It was a little further along the wall, where it was too dark to even see him.

Harry could only tell he’d found it by the distant, “Aha!”

Followed by the click of the switch.

And then several more clicks.

And then a, “Shit.”

“A torch or a lighter, maybe?” Margot asked from where she was standing, hands on her hips, just in front of Harry.

“Ooh, yeah,” Came Louis’ voice, followed by the soft pats of hands on pockets.

“Harry?” Louis asked when light didn’t appear.

“Mm?”

Louis came back into view, “Got my lighter?”

“Oh,” He did. He’d taken it from him as they’d got in the car and Louis lit one up before taking the steering wheel, “Yeah.”

Harry dug into his shorts pocket and pulled out the silver block. It glinted in the scrap of sunlight outside.

Louis watched patiently as Harry flicked it open and thumbed at the igniter. 

A flame appeared.

Absolutely tiny.

Too tiny.

But apparently, according to Louis, enough to guide them down the passageway. He held it in front of himself and marched them off into the black.

“We couldn’t have just picked the front door now, could we?” Harry lamented as he clung onto Louis’ arm and shuffled down behind him. The darkness was so unnerving, his feet felt like he was always one step away from plummeting into some ghastly hole.

“Breaking and entering? I would never!” Louis chuckled.

“Now there’s a first,” Came Margot’s reply from behind Harry. Her hands were around his shoulders, but by no means tightly.

They walked for what felt like an eternity. Long enough for it to even grow chilly and for Harry to step in something wet.

“Watch out, there,” Louis said, far too late.

“Thanks.”

The passageway got shorter too, like someone had gotten lazy half way and didn’t care that Harry was almost six foot. He could feel his hair catch on… things.

He didn’t press his hair down to find out what it was.

Finally, Louis slowed and held up the lighter to the wall. 

Another switch.

He tried it.

Suddenly, little hanging lights flashed on all the way down the passage and Harry could see that the walls were all dirt to match the ground, with muddy tails of water sliding down every so often. Along the roof were beams to keep the whole thing up, covered in cobwebs.

Harry definitely didn’t touch his hair now.

But the second light switch meant that they were at the other end. And Harry knew this because he turned back to find Louis fiddling with a rickety wood door.

He was shaking the handle.

“He’s bloody put some boxes in front of it,” Louis groaned, moving to press against the door with two hands, “We just need to push it hard. Gimme a hand, Honey?”

Harry went over and put his hands next to Louis’, just a little higher and closer to the edge.

They shoved the door. It creaked and shifted just a little.

So they shoved again.

This time it shifted open a little more and then seemed to push right back shut with a bang.

They shoved it again, hard.

The door opened a crack. Enough to see the glowing light of Liam’s workshop.

Something smashed next to the door. 

Sprinkles of glass blasted through the crack.

A piece flew past Harry and hit Louis’ leg. He jumped back and swore.

Then he came back fighting, shoving the door hard with his shoulder as he shouted, “Oi!”

The door swung open further and this time it was quiet.

Harry glanced in Louis’ direction where he was leaning against the door, and then cautiously poked his head through the crack.

Liam was standing at the other side of his workshop, arm raised with a glass bottle in hand. He looked petrified.

“Harry?” He asked, completely confused. The arm with the bottle came down, “What in the hell-”

“Fucking open it!” Louis shouted from behind Harry’s head.

Liam did. He rushed over to pull the crates from in front of the door. It took a few minutes, they sounded heavy as he slid them across the floor.

Finally there was enough room for Harry to squeeze through to the workshop.

Louis came barging in behind him.

“You could have bloody killed me, throwing that!” He complained, sitting straight on the floor to inspect his leg. A thin line of blood ran from his knee to his ankle, where it collected in his sock.

“I didn’t know it was you!” Liam protested as he grabbed some cloth for him from one of his many drawers, “What were you doing anyway, coming that way?”

Margot and Harry huddled in the corner.

“I… I…” Louis actually seemed lost for words, trailing off as he took the cloth from Liam and patted at his leg.

“I think,” Harry offered up, trying to both be delicate and humourous, “He wanted to show off.”

Louis didn’t say anything, so Harry took that as him conceding.

“You could’ve just rung the doorbell. I can hear that from down here.”

“But that  _ is _ less fun, don’t you think?” Harry said, trying to show Louis that he was not at all enjoying Liam’s idea.

Louis gave a small smile as he carefully pulled the tiny shard of glass from his leg, “Exactly.”

“Well…” Liam thought for a moment, “Knowing you, that shouldn’t really be a surprise.”

“Exactly,” Louis repeated, this time brighter. Prouder.

Louis stood up and shifted his leg to see how it felt. He didn’t wince so Harry didn’t worry too much - Louis had never seemed particularly concerned with a bit of discomfort. Not with the way he’d handled Harry so... Effortlessly.

“Also, Liam,” Louis continued, “This is Margot Lacau.”

“ _ Your _ Margot?”

Margot nodded, giving a humoured smile, “That would be me.”

She reached out a hand for Liam to take, and kissed both his cheeks, “Lovely to meet you in such… Exceptional circumstances.”

“Oh, well. Yes. Lovely to meet you too. This is, uh, my workshop then. I guess.”

“It’s marvellous. Very quaint,” She replied, smiling happily around the tiny room. She stopped at an open crate on the other side and pointed at it, “Is that a Matisse?”

“Oh. Um. Well it’s just a copy. I’d done that one a few years ago, but it wasn’t needed anymore.”

“Remarkable,” Margot said, lifting the framed painting out of the shredded newspaper in the crate.

Liam looked at his hands, so Louis nudged him and he quickly added a, “Thank you.”

“Anyway, the reason we’re here,” Louis said, walking to Liam’s desk and sitting down in his seat to inspect the items laid across it, “How’s the compass?”

“Oh!” Liam said, swivelling to join Louis, “Yes. That.”

“That,” Louis agreed as the other two gathered with them.

“It’s still in several parts,” Liam said, rearranging bent pieces of metal. He picked up a handful of tiny metal half spheres and placed them on a hexagon shaped sheet of metal, “These will go on here to make the Medici coat of arms, and these laurels are almost done.”

Liam showed them eight tiny clay flowers.

“There’s not much to show yet, I don’t want to put it together until I have everything.”

Louis was quiet for a moment before he smiled and said, “It might not all together, but all these parts… They’re perfect. Those flowers are exactly as I remember. I don’t know how you do it, Li.”

Liam smiled at his feet, “Oh, it’s nothing.”

“It’s not,” Louis rebutted, “It’s amazing. Don’t you think Harry?”

Harry bent over the desk to look closely at all the parts. There was a glass half globe too, perfectly round and polished, and a tiny curving S. He could already see how they fit Louis’ notebook drawings exactly, “It is.”

When he stood back up, Louis’ hand came to rest on the small of his back.

Harry gave Louis a side glance, completely aware that they were in front of unaware company. Louis was looking at Liam from his seat though, unblinking and smiling.

“Thanks, Harry,” Liam said.

Harry smiled back at him, but all he could think was that Louis was touching him. He wasn’t sure if Louis was even doing it on purpose, or if he’d become so used to the way they touched that he’d forgotten what it was to keep his hands to himself.

Then Louis’ hand had snaked around to Harry’s hip, and he was squeezing it.

Harry swallowed.

He wanted to warn Louis, remind them that this wasn’t the yacht and he was putting Harry in the middle of a very dangerous game. But there was no way to get the words out without Liam hearing.

He stared at him instead.

Hoping he got the hint.

He didn’t. 

In fact, Louis’ face changed, flattened, and he stuck his hand under Harry’s shirt and held on tighter, thumbing Harry’s skin in circles.

“I think I should actually be able to get it all together on Thursday. You need it by Friday, yes?”

“Friday, yeah,” Louis said, flatly. Staring right at Liam.

“Okay, well-” And then Louis actually pulled Harry into him and moved his hand further forward so it ought to be visible from the front.

Liam looked over.

His eyes went immediately to where Louis’ pinky was poking out from Harry’s shirt.

So did Margot’s.

Harry could only stare at Louis and hope that that would be enough to get them out of there alive.

Liam blinked. Then his eyes squinted a little. Then he looked back down at the bits on the desk, “Um...”

“Y’alright?” Louis asked. His tone was challenging.

Liam looked between Margot and Harry. Like  _ he _ was the one needing help.

“I- Uh- Yeah… Are...” His voice wavered off.

“Mm?”

“So-” Liam’s voice cracked, “Uh, you’re not working anymore, then?”

Louis took his time with his reply and Harry considered running out from him. But he felt frozen.

“Not after this job, no,” Louis steadily said at last, “Now I’ve got Harry, and all.”

Liam seemed to freeze too.

“Oh. You do... I…”

There was a long quiet.

Louis cut it.

“You’ll still be able to finish this by Friday?”

Liam looked lost, “Yeah, yeah. Friday.”

“Grand.”

There was silence. Absolute and uncomfortable silence.

Liam sat down on the edge of the desk and started busying himself, pretending to see how the parts all fit together.

Harry supposed they ought to just leave, pack up their things and go. But he wasn’t sure if they should go back the way they came or dare ask Liam to unlock the front door.

Louis started to shift. He pulled his hand from Harry and rested both of his hands on the edge of the table as he pushed back his chair.

But then Liam said something. Quiet. Too quiet to hear.

Louis froze and looked at him.

He spoke again, looking at where his hands turned the glass semicircle, “I’m happy for you.”

Liam looked up. Like a child.

Louis stayed still, sitting back into the seat a little.

“I mean, you seem nice Harry.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s just…” 

Harry’s stomach dropped. And then flung itself into his throat. 

“Sorry. I just didn’t know. I wasn’t expecting... That.”

“That,” Louis repeated, suddenly up on his hind legs again. Harry couldn’t keep up.

“You… I had no idea that you...”

Louis spoke like he was up for a fight, “No idea, what?”

Liam didn’t have the words. His eyebrows lifted a bit and he looked utterly lost.

“What do you call this?” Liam asked. He sounded small, unsure.

Louis turned to Harry, “I don’t know, what do you call this, hon?”

“I-” Harry wasn’t sure of his footing in this conversation.

“It’s only been a few weeks, dare I call it love? Or just a perversion?” Louis slowly looked back at Liam.

“I would-” Liam started, “I would never call you perverted, Louis. I didn’t mean that.”

“Okay. So what do you mean, then?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never met anyone who was… I thought maybe you had different names for things. I don’t know enough to…”

Louis paused. And then his voice softened with a slight sigh, “No. There’s not other names, Li. We’re exactly the same.”

“Oh. Good. I think.”

“Yes, good.”

Liam rested his chin on his hand then, and thought for a moment, “So does that mean you’ve always been…”

“Been a homosexual?”

Liam didn’t confirm out loud, but his head did quirk to the side in supposed agreement.

Louis huffed out a small laugh, “I think so.”

“And did you ever… Think of me-”

“No. Absolutely not. Sorry, Liam. No.”

“Oh,” There was a pause and then Liam continued, “And so, you haven’t gotten sick or anything? You’re okay?”

“What  _ are _ you talking about?”

“I just… That’s what I’ve always been told. That people… like you... were, uh, sick.”

Louis rolled his eyes, though he’d finally started to smile again, “No. That doesn’t happen.”

“Ever?”

“Well we are still human. I could still get, I don’t know, tuberculosis or something.”

“Huh.”

“Anything else?”

Liam was quiet a moment, then his eyes shifted to Harry thoughtfully, “So how did you meet? Where do you possibly go to meet other… people?”

It was like Liam had a serious aversion to just saying  _ homosexual _ , or  _ gay _ . Like he might offend.

Harry answered the question, though, “Well,” He coughed, “Louis came to my university and… It just sort of happened.” 

He didn’t mention how he dropped literally everything at the sight of Louis’ cheekbones.

“How?” Liam’s voice was almost childlike in wonder.

“I’m… Not really sure. We just sort of… Knew. I think.”

Louis nodded along.

“Amazing,” Liam said, “I’d have never thought you could.”

“Well, I mean,” Louis said, “There’s little things. When someone bumps their leg into yours, or keeps touching you, it usually means they like you.”

“ _ You _ were the one-” Harry started, miffed that Louis was suggesting it wasn’t him that kept touching Harry first.

Louis smiled knowingly up at him, “And it helps when Harry, here, asks to share a bed.”

Harry’s eyes went wide with embarrassment.

Liam’s eyes just went wide.

“To sleep in, Liam,” Louis added, “Sorry. It’s a whole story. Nevermind.”

“Okay,” Liam said, though he didn’t seem convinced.

“Okay,” Louis repeated, quite happily now.

His hand made its way back to Harry’s back.

 

When they left, through the front door this time, and Liam was out of view, Harry literally spun on the spot and shook Louis.

“What the hell was that!” He begged, but there was no anger in his voice. Jovial bewilderment maybe.

Louis smiled back at him, “Just checking we were in good company and all that.”

Harry held his hands across his eyes, rubbing them as he thought aloud, “But you could have… What if that went wrong?”

“It didn’t, I think. Not terrible, at least,” Louis chuckled.

“But what if?”

“I wouldn’t let it.”

“Louis,” Margot interjected sternly.

“I know, sorry. I’m sorry,” Louis said, genuinely remorsefully, his shoulders slumping a little.

“It’s fine, Lou,” Harry said, “I just had no idea you were going to do that.”

“I wasn’t really thinking. Sorry. All afternoon I’ve had what we were talking about earlier stuck in my mind. The stuff about making your own world - having good people around. I accidentally put my hand on you and when I realised, I just sort of… Went with it. Just wanted to find out already. Sorry.”

Harry was quiet a moment, thoughtful. Because he understood that, what Louis was talking about. Wanting to just tell people so he’d at least know if they were in good company or not. If they were worth pursuing. 

And on retrospect, the weight of Louis’ hand on his back was a comfort. In case it did go wrong.

“I know,” He said, pulling Louis into a hug and daring himself to not look over his shoulder, “I know. Just let me know first.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

“And hey,” Louis whispered right into Harry’s ear, “We don’t need to hide around him now.”

Harry chuckled under his breath, “That is true.”

“And,” He continued, “I got to show off that secret door. That was fun.”

Harry pulled away from Louis with a smirk, “I think you just got to show off.”

Louis shrugged his shoulders with a simper, “Maybe.”

 

On the drive home, Harry thought about the fact that Louis had called it  _ love _ . And that he’d been so ready to fight for it.

 

When they walked through the front door, Pierre greeted them in his soft, grey voice.

“I picked up some letters from the post office for you, Mam.”

Margot looked at him with interest.

“There’s one here from a certain guild,” He added, raising his tray up for her to take the small stack.

Margot clapped her hands gleefully and took them, thanking Pierre on the way. She rifled through the letters, checking the seal on all of them until she came across one with a gold wax pressed into the back. In the middle of it, the letters GRD of  _ Guilde du Rouleau d'or _ curled into each other over top of an illustration of a scroll.

“Guild of The Golden Scroll, correct?” Harry asked.

Margot tapped the end of her nose, where dark dust from the tunnel was still swept, “That’s the one. This’ll hopefully be a letter to confirm you two are to come. I’ll be ropable if it isn’t.”

 

It wasn’t.

When they gathered in the front room, a cozy room of settees around a fireplace, just to the left of the front door, Margot had quickly cut open the envelope and then frowned.

“What is it?” Louis asked, perched with his hip on the settee arm across from her. Harry was sitting next to him, properly.

“It’s…” Margot started.

She didn’t finish though. Instead, she dropped the letter to the space next to her, and jumped up. Then staunched out of the room.

“Where’s that bloody telephone gone?” They could hear from the hallway, her voice shrinking as she wandered off.

Louis practically leapt at the letter, landing on the floor to read it like the sofa was a desk.

His hand went to his brow.

Harry came over and put his hand on Louis’ back as he bent down. He attempted to read the French over his shoulder but Louis started translating in an overly exaggerated, posh French voice.

“ _ My apologies, Madam. Monsieur Tomlinson will not be welcome at our Night of Red. If you were not of the Lacau name, I would not hesitate to inform you of the offence caused by asking someone such as I to accommodate someone such as him. However, you are, and so I have hesitated. Though after considerable thought, I have still come to the conclusion that it is in your best interest to be reminded that associating with such vermin reflects poorly on you. Best regards, H. Baptise _ .”

“Best regards?” Harry asked as he finished, disgust wiped across his brow, “Who are these people?”

“The kind of people that use ‘vermin’ unfortunately,” Louis sat back, “I’m kind of impressed though, he had some balls to write something so… Eloquent to Mar.”

Harry was quiet a moment before he asked, “So what do we do now?”

Louis was quiet. He began to absentmindedly flap the letter in his hand as he looked around in space.

Then he got up and started towards the door. He turned to where Harry was still hovering next to the couch and resigned, “Let’s find Mar.”

 

Margot was upstairs.

They’d called around the ground floor with ever growing defeat until Pierre came walking down the staircase, hands held quietly together. 

He nodded upwards and said, “The music room.”

Louis led them straight up the stairs, taking two at a time, and to the fifth door on the right. The door was still a sliver open so he walked right in.

Margot was leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. She was holding a phone receiver up to her ear, the cord swooping up to a small wooden box just above her head.

She was speaking in french, her voice shrill and unimpressed, “I don’t care if he’s busy, this is more important than whatever he’s filling his face with. Need I remind you who you’re talking to?”

Harry and Louis quietly sat on the sofa next to her and tried to hear the other line. It was simply a quiet, gargled, buzz.

“Thank you,” Margot eventually snapped.

She raised her eyebrows at the two of them, rolling her eyes with contempt.

“We’ll sort it,” She mouthed.

There were perhaps two minutes of quiet in the room as they waited for presumably Hugo Baptiste himself to come to the phone. Louis sat on the edge of the sofa and reached over to hold Harry’s hand.

Harry pulled him over and stroked the back of his head with his free hand.

“Hugo,” Margot finally said. Her voice was flat, wholly unimpressed.

There was a quiet buzz on the other end.

“Yes, this letter you sent.”

There was another buzz, this one significantly longer.

“Hugo, I’d thought you better than a simple gossip. You know those things aren’t true.”

Another buzz.

“His reputation is nothing compared to what yours would be if word got out about Mary- Yes I know all about it- Yes- Yes, I do. Last I heard she had died in Geneva. Know anything about that?- Yes? Good. Now you wouldn’t want that to get out would you?- No, I didn’t think so.”

Then Margot smiled into the phone, “So we’ll be seeing you on Saturday?- Splendid. I can’t wait!”

Margot hung the phone back up on the hook and winked down at the two of them on the couch, “Should have just called him in the first place, shouldn’t I? Mind you, you know I hate these blasted things. Far too loud.”

Hence why they were in the music room surrounded by instruments.

“But we _ are _ going?” Louis asked, cutting right to the point.

“Oh Louis,” Margot said, smiling at the worry on his face, “Yes, love.”

Louis fell back into the seat and let out a long, relieved sigh.

“Thank you,” He said.

“Anything for you, sweet.”

“Thank you so much,” Louis repeated.

Margot gave a warm smile and then it grew to be quite pleased with herself.

“You’d better get some suits, then,” She said.

Louis hummed from where he lay, eyes closed.

“Maybe after a bath, though,” Margot said, “You’re bloody grotty.”

Harry laughed and then nodded to Margot, “We’ve got nothing on you.”

Margot looked down at her dress and seemed to only just realise that she too was covered in dirt from their trip through the passage. She laughed, though.

“Just one question, first,” Louis said, sitting up, “Who’s Mary?”

Margot’s smile slackened, “Never you mind, pet.”

Louis waited expectantly.

“Never you mind, Louis,” Margot warned, each word slow and exact.

“Mar.”

Margot started to leave the room. Quiet and steadily. She made it right to the door before she stopped and turned only half her head.

She sighed, “She was Hugo’s first wife. The one that was supposedly captured in Germany.”

“Oh,” Was all Louis said.

_ Oh _ was right, because Geneva was in Switzerland. Not Germany.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Harry had started to learn some of Louis’ habits.

Like the fact that he always flung his shoes off instead of unlacing them. Or that he would always take a bite out of whatever Harry was eating, even if he had the same thing on his plate. There was, of course, the fact that he could never ever seem to keep his hands out of Harry’s hair too.

But then there was the singing.

Louis would always sing. 

He’d sing when their moments outside turned quiet and comfortable and he could fill the gaps in the trees above them with songs too pretty for birds.

He’d sing when they were driving and something came on the radio and he could keep the tune rolling and rolling until Harry turned the machine off and time the whip of sea breeze with the notes of Louis’ voice.

And he sang when they slid into their bath together and he could run his fingers through Harry’s wet hair and hopefully see that his voice was silkier than Harry’s hair could ever dream to be.

Because his voice was the silkiest, sweetest thing Harry had ever heard. He’d sing with him too sometimes, his own voice lower and heavier and filled with gravel, but he could sit and listen to Louis all day long.

It accentuated the way his body naturally curved, pretty and petite and almost girlish, and underscored the fact that Louis was much more than the intrepid man in that Oxford hallway.

When Louis finished his song and rested an elbow on the bath’s edge so he could tell a story of the time he got lost at four in the morning in Amsterdam, Harry noted how his wrist curved downwards. Delicate and lax, his fingers splayed like a dancer’s.

Harry laced his fingers between each of Louis’ and kissed his thumb and his palm and his wrist and all the places he thought beautiful.

Louis kissed the back of his head and rested his cheek on it. He pulled his hand up to hug it around Harry’s chest and his story went quiet and he didn’t sing because the sound of each other’s heartbeats pulsing through the water was perfect enough.

 

Another of Louis’ habits was that he was far better made for water than Harry.

When Harry was pruney and the water a touch too cold, he’d shifted and stood.

“I think I might write to my mother,” Harry said as he reached for a towel.

Louis lay his head back and closed his eyes, “Mm? What about?”

“I think I might tell her.”

Tell her that he’d met a boy and he’d found a piece of world that felt like his. That he felt more at home than he ever had before, and he should like to bring that home back to the one he grew up in. Because, truth be told, the drive back from Liam’s workshop had felt freeing. He’d shown someone his love and they didn’t react in disgust.

Confusion and misunderstanding, yes. By the bucketloads.

But Liam’s ignorance had been dotted with wonder too. He’d asked how they met, and how they could have come to be, like it was so unlikely. So unfathomable. And like it was so amazing that they had.

So there was a bit of Harry that had felt like he could fight that ignorance, just by loving the man across from him and showing that what they had was spectacular.

Because this  _ was _ spectacular, and his family should either have the heart to learn that, or he’d stay right here forever. Wrapped up in the arms of the man who had already built his chosen family and didn’t need the approval of others.

“Are you sure?” Louis asked, opening his eyes a crack.

“Should I not?”

“No, not that,” Louis said, shifting upwards and reaching out his hand for Harry to come over and take, sit on the edge of the bath, “I think you should, if you want. But I want you to be okay if it doesn’t go well.”

Harry thought for a moment, his eyes caught in their entangled hands.

He thought about the consequences of a split up family, one rocked by scandal. How his father would surely never speak his name again, and his brothers would surely curse him. Mocking him with obscene hand gestures as they coo out the sounds of Harry bent over a bed.

Worse still, he thought of his mother and his sisters. How they might react poorly. Katherine closing her doors and Gemma cutting up photographs and his mother tossing all the books she’d ever read him.

All of them erasing him.

But Harry couldn’t shake the thing Louis had said on the boat, how he thought his mother had always known.

And he couldn’t help but remember the thing he’d said later, outside The Rose & Dagger, about wanting to  _ know _ if people were worth the worry. And how it was better to just know than spend a lifetime in wondering.

And Harry couldn’t help but know he’d always seen the cracks in his family, in the memories of his childhood. How he’d always been different, but his mother still kissed him goodnight. Still cried whenever he returned to university.

“I will,” Harry said, because his family could take his money away but they couldn’t take away who Harry was, and always would be.

“I think there’s paper up in the library, whenever you’re ready to do it.”

“I think I might do it now,” He said, because he was feeling brave.

“Should I come with you, or do you want to be alone?”

Harry squeezed Louis’ hand, “Just come up when you’re done. No rush.”

“Okay,” Louis said and then pouted his lips for Harry to kiss.

Harry took him by the chin and kissed him slowly. Appreciatively and honestly. It might not have been a full three weeks yet, but hell, Harry thought it full of love.

 

When he went up the stairs to the third level, just the towel wrapped around his waist, Harry walked past Margot. She was walking down the opposite way and gave Harry a smirk that made him hitch the towel a little higher. Tighter. 

But she wasn’t cleaned up yet, still had on her layer of muck, so Harry didn’t mind being caught parading around half naked too much. At least he was freshly clean.

“That reminds me!” She smiled, “A bath sounds perfect.”

And off she went, gliding down her stairs.

 

Harry was sure the library was the fourth door down but all the doors on this level were closed.

He bit the side of his thumb and walked towards the door he thought was right, knocking when he got there just to be sure.

No one answered so he cracked the door open just a touch. The smell of his mother greeted him and he knew he was in the right place.

The room was exactly as he remembered, but in this late afternoon light he could see the way dust had settled into the cracks between books. The way specks floated down from the window.

Harry remembered that there were some loose papers on the coffee table between the pink chairs, but those were not there now. Instead, the room was distinctly void of any paper. There was a desk inset into the shelves on his right, which was empty of all but a pair of spectacles.

Harry closed the door behind him and hesitantly tried the drawers below the desk, held back only by a thought that maybe he shouldn’t go rifling through other people’s drawers. Particularly those of someone who had clearly learned to shut most of the world out, someone who didn’t let anyone  _ bar Louis _ know where she even lived.

But Louis had said there should be paper in here, and the drawers seemed like the most obvious place to look.

He tried the top one first.

It was locked, rocking only a little before it thought better and kept Harry out.

The rest were locked too.

Harry stood back and bit his lip, looked around the room and considered just leaving it for now. He could pop into town tomorrow and get his own paper, could find something to send with the letter too. A pressed flower or a necklace. Something his mother would hopefully keep to remind her of Harry and how his softness is goodness.

He was about to turn on his heel, back out of the room to leave it in the exact stillness he’d found it, but something caught his eye. 

A box on one of the shelves to his left, just below shoulder height. It was wood and ornate and inscribed with flowers, each painted with muted, romantic colours. And it looked just the right size for paper.

Harry forgot his concerns with intruding and walked over to it, turned its delicate latch and lifted its lid.

Inside, there was a notebook, heavy and velvet, a dip pen and an ink pot. Harry shuffled them to see if there was anything underneath.

His finger caught on something tiny, and sharp.

It scratched the pad of his finger and made him yank his hand away. He quickly put his finger in his mouth and tried to suck away the sting.

Curious as to what had nicked him, Harry looked into the box again. Right into the top left hand corner.

A sliver of metal came out of the wood, it was as skinny as a sheet of card and barely bigger than milk tooth. Quite frankly, it looked like the blunt edge of a knife was poking out of the wood. Peculiarly, it looked like it was meant to be there though. The wood around it seemed perfectly cut to house it.

Harry pressed a finger back to it, testing if it was actually sharp of he’d just whacked his finger into it too carelessly.

It shifted under the weight of his finger, springy like a button.

Harry dared press it a little harder.

Something clicked.

Just to the right of him.

He looked towards the sound.

An entire section of shelves had moved. Were still moving.

It swung out maybe an inch or two. Like a door left just ajar, resting on its hinges.

Harry let out a small whiff of air, fascinated and just a touch impressed with himself. It seemed Margot had even more secrets than he thought.

He debated leaving it, though. Pressing this door shut and going back to Louis paperless and ponderous. But no one was around to tell him that his curiosity was something he sometimes needed to shut a door on too, that it was just as much his affliction as his advantage.

So he edged his fingers towards the open gap and held his breath.

He began to pull the door back.

It swung back heavily. Smoothly.

There were stairs going upwards. Five of them.

And darkness beyond.

Harry took a tentative breath and opened the door wider, taking a step into it.

Louis was singing.

He could hear his voice floating up the stairs, under the crack of the library door. It was a pretty, sweet, song. He sounded happy. Careless. And like he would definitely not stay that way if he found Harry snooping through secret passages in the home of his Margot.

Harry’s heart jumped out of his chest and he quickly leapt back and swung the door shut, clumsily remembering to catch it at right at the last second to stop it slamming. 

It clicked shut, almost silently. Thankfully. 

He reached over to the box and shut that too. But his reach was fevered, overzealous, and that smacked shut with a bang.

“Fuck,” He cursed under his breath, blowing air out of his nose.

Louis’ song was getting closer.

Harry’s heart was getting closer to his throat.

Quickly he looked for something to make him look unsuspicious. But the room was so tidy. And there was no paper.

The library door opened.

Harry pulled out a book from the shelf.

“You'll never know, how slow the moments go, 'till I'm near to you,” Louis crooned, bright and dramatic. Smiling right at Harry. 

He danced into the room, spinning as he came away from the door, and took Harry’s chin into his hand.

“Find your paper, my love?”

Harry coughed and tried to make his smile not look too delirious, “Uh, not quite. Couldn’t find any.”

“Oh, really?” Louis looked around before he too tried the desk drawers.

When they wouldn’t open for him either, Louis spun around and leant against the desk instead, “There should be some elsewhere, let’s go ask Pierre.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said as his heartbeat began to relax because Louis hadn’t noticed he’d been up to mischief, “Another day, maybe.”

“Are you sure, love?” Louis asked, walking back over to him and taking both of his hands, dropping Harry’s book carelessly on the shelf. He hooked Harry’s arms up around his neck and nestled up to his chest, resting his own hand against Harry’s chest.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, hoping Louis didn’t feel the remnants of thunder in his chest, “I’m not really dressed for company, anyways.”

Louis looked down at just the towel wrapped Harry’s waist and tittered, “Mm, I think you’re dressed to get up to no good.”

Harry could only smirk, the only way he could smile and not look crazy, “You have no idea.”

“Really?” Louis asked, looking up at Harry through his eyelashes. He hooked a finger over the edge of his towel. And Harry couldn’t help it, his heartbeat picked back up and his breath hitched because Louis was looking at him like he could see the all the mischief swimming in Harry’s eyes and he was biting his lip like he liked it.

Harry pushed away from the shelf and scooped Louis right up, pulling his thighs so they wrapped around his waist as he leant Louis against the shelves. He could tell that if he dropped him even an inch, his towel would loosen and fall completely away.

“Uh huh,” Harry said.

“Show me then,” Louis whispered into his ear, dragging his teeth against his ear lobe before he bit it ever so softly.

So Harry showed him.


	18. The Envelopes.

Tuesday 

July 2nd, 1935.

Cannes, France.

  
  


Selene stood in front of the mirrors inspecting herself.

Three versions of herself stared back, twisting as she turned like silky red mimes.

“Can I try with some gloves?” She asked in French.

The assistant smiled graciously and nodded, “Of course, Madame. Will white do? I think they’d look splendid this time of year.”

Selene pictured white gloves with the draping red dress she stood in. It swooped beautifully over her collar into a hanging bow just above the small of her back.  White gloves would look good, she supposed. Elegant even. With her hair pinned back and lipstick to match her dress, she might fancy herself a regular Joan Crawford. Selene tilted her head to take in that picture, an image of her walking into the Baptiste mansion, slipping through double doors to dazzle the crowds and make the other girls jealous because her fair skin and red hair would shine in the light of chandeliers and champagne. And she’d saunter past them all, smiling high and unaffected as they clawed at their box dye disasters.

But white gloves would mess easily, they’d collect blood drops like loose change. And the only reason she needed gloves was to conceal a blade, so she could slip past those bumbling beauties and get rid of Harry and Louis in one swift motion.

“I’d like black, actually,” She stated.

The assistant’s face dropped a millimetre before she caught herself and nodded again, “If you like, Madame.”

Selene rolled her eyes.

 

When she finally left, red dress and black gloves en route, Selene made her way straight back to her hotel. She’d tired of being in that store, the  _ Chanel _ with the assistants that smiled at every request but scrutinized every shape and curve as you stood up to the mirror.

“You’re so slight, Madame,” The assistant had said as she did her up, “I’m sure all the ladies will be so envious.”

“I’m sure,” Selene had said matter-of-factly,  _ just like you _ .

As she made her way through the hotel lobby to the elevator, a voice called out to her.

“Madame,” It said, ever so politely.

She spun around.

It was the man behind the front desk, small and slender and with a pair of round spectacles across his eyes.

“Room 208?”

Selene looked at him. 

“I believe this is for you.”

He held out an envelope, slightly bigger and fatter than the usual kind. 

Selene took it wordlessly and left for the elevator. She held it to her side until the doors closed behind her and the lobby left her sight. Then, she turned the envelope in her hands and looked for a sender’s address.

There was none.

So she waited for the elevator to ding so she could make it to her room. 

She shut the door behind her.

Finally, leaning against her door, she tore open the envelope.

Inside, there was a small note and another, smaller envelope - it’s top edge cut open already.

She dropped the larger envelope to the floor and read the note first.

  
  


**_My Dear Selene,_ **

 

**_This was sent for you. Who knew you’d make such a friend._ **

  
  
  


No doubt it was from her father. She recognised the perfectly looped handwriting.

She could have been thankful that her father had sent on some mail for her, but she wasn’t. Because the letter he’d sent had already been opened, which meant that he had decided it was his business to read it.

Selene dropped the note to the ground too and moved on to the opened envelope that had been passed on. There was no sender address on this envelope either but it had been stamped in Marseille.

She tipped the envelope over and shook out the letter inside. It was one single sheet and only written on the front. She quickly scanned over it, reading each word only partially and in a fever. 

Quickly, a smile grew. Her canines on show.

Because there, at the bottom, the letter was signed by one Margot Lacau.


	19. The Conspirators.

Wednesday 

July 3rd, 1935.

Cannes, France.

  
  


There were two tailors at  _ Amo’s _ , a small tailoring shop dressed in thick white curtains embroidered with gold. 

One was older, with greying hair and a permanent look of dissatisfaction on his face. The other was much younger, surely only on the edge of his twenties. He was small, thin, and seemed to buzz around them like an eager wasp.

Immediately, Harry was put off the both of them. Though maybe that was because the older one’s eyes seemed to never leave his watch, and the younger one had given Louis a look.

“I’ll need you to fix me up nice and good, and by Friday if that’s alright,” Louis had said brightly in French when they came in.

And this boy, this kid, had given Louis the look that Harry saw on men at the bars he frequented. The ones that followed him home and asked to come in.

Louis apparently didn’t notice though.

Harry scoffed under his breath. 

When they’d been shown some of the styles on offer, the ones that could be adjusted in time, he’d been quick to request that they got two of the same. So they could match.

The kid gave him a look then, too. One that lifted his chin and tilted his hair back.

“Matching suits, huh?” Louis had asked quietly when the two tailors had disappeared out the back, “I quite like that.”

“Mm,” Harry said back, “Think it’ll  _ suit _ us.”

Louis rolled his eyes, but he smiled. The corners of his mouth right up into the slash of his cheekbones.

The tailors worked them over in a flurry, whip fast and professional. The young one, of course, took to Louis’s suit and Harry was left with the strict hands of the old man.

They pulled at them, folding over fabric in silence so that as the outfits came together, Louis could pull at his cuffs and stand up straighter, his face haughtier. 

“Feeling quite important, are we?” Harry joked, smiling at the way Louis was ogling himself in the mirror.

Louis gave him a look.

“Just practicing, we need to blend in is all.”

“Ah,” Was all Harry said as he made a show of lifting his own chin and pulling down his tailcoat. He winked at Louis, catching the young tailor’s eye in the mirror.

Hugo’s Night of Red was an explicitly and exclusively white tie event, full of tailcoats and top hats and only the crispest of white shirts. The suits they stood in were cut perfectly towards their middle and with lapels that shot up to their shoulders.

It was amazing, Harry thought, that the same suit could look so slim and sharp on himself and yet so delicate and curvaceous on Louis. Like he was a carving knife, and Louis a laguiole.

Finally, the tailors had done their preening and stood back to let them inspect their work.

“How’s that?” The kid asked, looking only at Louis.

Louis smiled, turning a little on the spot to see how his tails fell down his back, “Perfect.”

The tailor smiled to himself, his chin too high.

“But,” Louis continued, “We should add our boutonnieres. A red carnation would be brilliant.”

The tailor quickly nodded, his hungry smile still on show. Harry wanted to kick him.

“And something else for you?” The tailor finally looked at him.

Harry was about to answer but Louis interjected, “No, no. We’d like to match.”

The smile went off his face.

Harry could barely bite his back.

 

“You bloody minx,” Harry said as though Louis had just told him some gossip once they left, “Letting that kid flirt with you.”

“What’s a man to do?” Louis grinned, because of course he was in on it the entire time, “You’re pretty when you’re jealous.”

“Am I just?” Harry faked a scoff.

“Look at you right now, absolutely beside yourself.”

Harry pouted at him until Louis kissed away his playful tantrum, and they were both left giggling because that kid thought he could ever possibly sneak Louis out from under Harry’s feet.

 

There was nothing to do for the rest of the day, and for Thursday too, as they counted down the hours till they left for Cannes. 

So they filled it with the last dredges of sun they knew they had for certain, walking through the hills around Margot’s home and wondering past the shops in town. They spent hours wondering in and out of those shops, finding new foods to try, new books to read, new pictures to watch, and where Harry caught sight of a jewellery store that had a gold chain necklace in the window. One that would match the bite marks below his ear.

He bought it immediately, and made Louis give him another mark to match when they made it home.

Harry had gotten quite used to being tucked up in the hills of Marseille, their routine of sun and love, so it had come to feel like the last days of summer holidays before he’d return to school. Every year since he was five.

Though he’d never spent the last days of a holiday without knowing what came next, the routine of books and essays that always followed.

So a nervous buzz seemed to hover over him. Exciting, yes, but worrying too. This was all new now. He was about to follow Louis into a room of powerful strangers and attempt to steal from them.

They went over their plan again so Harry could remind himself of how it was all going to work out and that he’d be alright.

Go to the party, mingle for a while, and then Louis would asked for something sweet to drink so he could spill someone’s drink down themselves while Harry popped away to nab the compass. Louis would carry on with his dramatics and his apologies until Harry could slip back in unnoticed, sweet drink in hand.

They’d talked it over time and time again. So many times that Harry could finish Louis’ sentences, mouth the words he was about to say.

  
  


“Stay here this morning,” Louis said as he kissed Harry awake on the Friday morning they were to leave, “I have a surprise for you.”

For once, Louis was awake first, and he was uncharacteristically chipper for seven in the morning, full of smiles and kisses and happy fluttering of eyelashes.

Harry looked up at Louis, eyes squinting at the sunny ray of man in front of him, “What kind of surprise?”

“A good one,” Louis grinned. 

They’d planned to go back to Liam’s that morning to pick up the finished compass and their suits before driving the three hours to Cannes, but it seemed Harry was suddenly spending his morning mulling about the estate waiting for Louis’ return.

He read his book on Tutankhamun until it was done and he was left lying in bed with nothing to do but finally get changed and find some late breakfast.

Harry stripped the bed and rolled the sheets into a pile, sheepishly thinking  _ good luck _ to whoever got to clean that. Then he attempted to pack what he and Louis might need in their satchels, Louis’ notebook, the telescope, their money and passports. Louis’ gun. When it came to their clothes, he wasn’t sure how long to pack for, so he just attempted to stuff a host of underwear and socks into each bag. And couple of jumpers and trousers in case they found themselves somewhere cooler.

Of course, there was no chance of all of that fitting, so, with sleeves spilling out of the bags, Harry pulled everything out completely and folded them into neat piles so Louis could bloody help him when he got back.

Harry wondered downstairs to eat a spot of breakfast, croissants and jam with tea. It felt like no one was around, no Pierre, no Margot, no other staff skittering about. The estate was so different when it was empty, like it had been laying dormant for centuries. Silent and alone. It was pretty still, but better with other people in it.

Harry left with his plate in one hand and his tea in the other and sat out outside on the back deck overlooking the garden where the birds were chirping. He’d grown so fond of other people now, of the ones that filled the home in his heart and opened his doors. He imagined his own bird song as a tangle of ocean waves and swaying leaves, of Louis’ singing and Liam’s bumbling and Margot’s reassuring words. 

As he chewed his food and sipped his tea and looked out at the garden, Harry remembered the moment he’d fallen on that lawn and taken Louis with him. Played with him until it wasn’t funny and Louis had to make himself a deal.

So much had changed in such little time. Not just from that moment on the lawn, but from the mere weeks since Harry was preparing for a summer romancing his thesis. It felt like he was thinking of the memories of a whole other person, one who was still living in a bubble contained to the edges of book pages, who didn’t know what it felt to not be lonely, and who would have never considered actually writing a confession to his mother.

Harry thought of the letter he was going to write. And then he thought of library. And the door within it.

Harry slowed his chewing and looked around, wondering if the house was truly empty or he’d just thought it when he couldn’t hear Louis smiling in his ear.

But there were no footsteps, no clinking of cutlery, no spreading of sheets over beds.

Harry slowly rose from his seat.

Quietly, he walked back into the house, ears pricked up for any sounds. He could only hear the ticking of a clock.

Margot and Pierre must have gone with Louis. The dogs too.

He crept up the stairs, holding his hand along the rail so his feet would make as little sound as possible. On the third floor, he stopped in front of the library door and took a preparatory breath. 

It squeaked open. Too loudly for the silent hallway.

He looked around to see if anyone would rush out of one of the doors and catch him in the act.

They didn’t.

So he slid into the room and carefully clicked the door shut behind him.

 

The secret door was open before him, leading up into darkness and towards the very real possibility that Harry was about to do something he shouldn’t.

Curiosity was good.

Learning was good.

Snooping was bad. 

And he was definitely snooping.

Harry took a sharp breath anyway and stepped into the darkness.

The passage was slim, and the floor beneath him wood. It creaked under his bare feet. There were three little squares along the bottom edges of the walkway that lit his way just enough to see where he was going.

He came up to the first little block of light and crouched to see what lit it.

His blood cooled.

It was a grate, as small as his hand, and a bedroom was visible through the slits. Immaculate and dressed in lavender and honeysuckle sheets.

He moved on to the next grate.

It was a bathroom.

Their bathroom.

The ensuite Harry and Louis shared. Had taken baths in.

There was one more block of light and Harry felt sick. He knew what was coming.

He was right.

Through the last grate was their room. There was the bed he’d finally stripped, the rolled up sheets on top of it, the neat piles of clothes next to their bags.

They’d kissed in that room, made love. Fucked. And here was a hidden passage with a hidden window that could look right down on it all.

Harry sat back, leaning against the opposite wall and held his head in his hands.

Vomit lay at the base of his throat.

But this was a passageway. A hallway. A space that  _ lead _ somewhere.

Harry looked to his left, to another short set of stairs and the faint outline of a door.

He was already in too deep, couldn’t leave now with the knowledge that rooms lay between walls. He couldn’t spend another minute in the house without getting to the other side of that door.

He stood, walked up the stairs and tried the handle.

It opened.

Dust hit his face.

Warm, dry dust. The air stagnant and tasting of old… things. Antiques.

The room was dark, but not as dark as the passage behind him. There were small windows covered in tattered red curtains, thin enough to let light saturate through the crosshatch of threads. In front of the curtains were things of all shapes and sizes covered in discoloured white sheets. Bleached on the sides touched by sunlight.

Next to the door, just on the left, was a desk. Thick and worn, splintered like the wood of a pier. Above it was an instrument that looked like the bell of a horn that curved down into the wall.

Harry looked it at, raised a hand to touch along its edge.

His finger came away with a thin line of grey dust.

He put his ear up to it and could hear the faint sounds of birds again. Warped and magnified. Shallow sounding.

It must listen to somewhere outside.

Strange.

Next to the horn, right there on the desk was an envelope. It looked out of place. It was slightly crumpled but the ink of its address hadn’t faded, and there were fingerprints in the dust around it. 

Harry picked it up.

It was addressed in Margot’s name, but only gave the address of the Marseille post office.

Harry turned it over. The seal was already broken so he could pull back the flap and look inside.

If he shouldn’t have snooped into the passage to find windows to their bedroom, he certainly shouldn’t have snooped about this envelope.

But he had.

Harry opened out the letter and read it.

  
  


**_Margot,_ **

 

**_I was so happy to receive your letter. You can not imagine my delight to know you’ll all be at Hugo’s party. I promise wholeheartedly, Louis won’t see it coming._ **

**_I’m counting down the days._ **

 

**_Yours faithfully,_ **

**_Selene_ **

  
  
  


The sick in Harry’s stomach came back up.

He rocked and threw out a hand to the desk to keep him upright.

The room spun around him.

This was not happening.

Margot was not conspiring with Selene.

She wasn’t.

She  _ was _ .

Harry didn’t know what to do.

Then, with more sick luck, a sound came through the horn.

The sound of gravel moving. Tyres over gravel.

He froze, looked out the window to find a car driving around the swoop in the driveway and parking right at the front door.

Louis got out of the passenger door, followed by Margot.

His voice came shooting up through the horn, he was laughing.

Completely unaware.

Harry was paralysed.

Then he remembered himself and kicked into motion.

He bolted from the room, as silent as possible as he crossed the hardwood floor. Scared that everyone would hear him escaping and they’d rush up to find him throwing up between their walls, skittish and terrified.

He closed the first door behind him, sure that Margot was going to come up to look for her letter as soon as she got inside and found that someone had clearly been through here.

As he turned from the door and prepared to run the ten metres to the open book shelf, there was movement below. In his bedroom.

It was Louis.

He could see the swash of his hair pass under the grate.

“Har- Huh,” Came his voice, hollowed by the hole in the wall.

Harry cursed silently as he glued himself to the opposite wall, furthest from the grates, and edged himself towards the end of the passage. He needed to be completely silent now, with Louis right below.

If Louis saw him through the grate, or even heard him, surely couldn’t escape without Margot finding out. Louis would crack some joke, or question Harry, completely unaware that this was something to keep between them.

Harry crept forwards, sliding his feet along the ground to keep his steps silent.

One of the floorboards creaked and he paused, screwing up his mouth so he didn’t swear, and took a breath.

He moved again, slightly faster because it felt like he’d wasted time already.

The door was right there.

Two metres away.

One metre away.

He reached out for the edge of the door and then flung himself through. Heavy and relieved. Quickly, he clicked shut the secret door behind him.

Now he just needed to get out of the library. That was significantly easier, he could make footsteps here without raising eyebrows, though they still came out awkward as he clambered towards the door. 

Harry pulled open the library door far too hard and let out a jump of air as it swung out towards him and tugged his hands towards the shelves behind it.

He reminded himself to breath in. And to close the door like a sane person.

He pulled the door shut behind him and finally breathed out, wholly and deeply.

It wasn’t until Louis came prancing up the stairs that Harry realised he still had the letter in his hand.

He stuffed it in his pocket as Louis smiled up at him, their bags in each hand and said, “There you are! We should go.”

Harry let out a shaky, almost delirious, chuckle, “Yes. Please.”

 

The drive to Cannes was hell. Absolute hell.

Harry had to pretend he was normal, that his hands weren’t sweating when Louis latched onto them and that he was just in a quiet mood - not at all considering all the ways Margot had lied to them and had been plotting with Selene. He had to pretend for three hours that he wasn’t ready to jump out the car window and pull Louis with him any time it slowed.

He needed to tell Louis, stop this all at once.

But he couldn’t, because they’d left so quickly. Margot was already waiting in the car, Pierre in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t turn around and say he’d forgotten something in the house and take Louis with him because he didn’t even know the contents of their bags now. Louis had picked whatever he’d needed out of Harry’s piles and filled them himself.

To be honest, though, he couldn’t really think in those first few minutes. Louis had pulled him down to the car and Margot had smiled as they got in and they’d all pulled away with Harry wondering how he’d got there.

It wasn’t until the chateau disappeared altogether and Harry turned to find his thigh pressed up against Margot’s that he settled into the fact that he was really, truly in danger.

  
  
  
  


Their hotel was nice, Harry supposed. He couldn’t really tell, though he couldn’t really tell anything. Louis had asked him what he’d thought of the view, straight down onto the beach and out to sea, and he just made a small sound and nodded.

“You okay, love?” Louis asked at that, “I thought you loved the water?”

“I do,” Harry said. He wanted to add that he had a letter in his pocket that had been pressed up between him and Margot during that whole drive and that he’d felt nauseous every time she’d shifted and he could feel it crinkle, “I’m just…”

Harry couldn’t get the words out. They were lead in his throat.

“I don’t know.”

“Well if it helps,” Louis said, opening up his satchel on the bed, “I have my surprise for you. Well, two surprises really.”

Harry stood where he was, just in front of their window to the sea.

“Come ‘ere,” Louis added, patting the bed beside him.

Harry walked over and sat down heavily.

“This one first,” Louis said as he pulled out a small velvet bag, navy blue, and then from that the compass Liam had made for them.

It was perfect, of course. Harry had suspected it would be.

It was a hexagonal box that opened in two halves and made to look like it was of the same ivory as the telescope. Each edge of the case was lined with brass metal. On top of the lid was the medici coat of arms, a brass shield decorated with five balls in a V shape and another identical ball above but engraved with three tiny fleur de lis’.

Harry opened the box.

Inside was the compass with the needle that searched for South, above which a semicircle of glass sat so it looked like the compass face was inside a globe. Around the half globe were six sets of laurels, in brass that matched the outside.

“Wow,” Harry said.

“I know, Liam’s bloody brilliant isn’t he?”

Harry hummed quietly.

“But more importantly, the second surprise. The good one,” Louis said, reaching back into his satchel, “It’s why I wanted you to stay at home. When we went to the jewellers the other day, I saw them but never got the chance to get them without you seeing, but I, uh, hope they’re alright. I hope you like them.”

Louis pulled out a buttery black box, the size and shape of a book. He kept talking as he handed it to Harry, “I don’t know, I just- They made me think of you. The, um, way you make me feel. I really hope it’s alright. Tell me if it’s too much.”

Harry undid the black bow around it and lifted the top of the box off. Inside, a single sheet of white tissue paper lay flat.

Harry pulled it back to find a pocket watch and a set of cufflinks shining up at him.

He carefully plucked out the pocket watch. Roped along its chain were little charms. Anchors.

The cufflinks were anchors too, gold and perfect and just like Louis.

“Wow, I-” Harry started.

“Is it too much?”

“No, they’re beautiful.”

“I got anchors because, well, it might be naff but I don’t care. You feel like my anchor. You make me feel so grounded, Harry.”

“I… Don’t know what to say.”

Harry loved it. It was such a generous, beautiful gift. So thoughtful of Louis, but he couldn’t smile properly. The edges of his mouth were weighed down by the letter in his pocket. He didn’t want Louis to think he didn’t love it. 

His nausea came back.

“I...”

Louis looked at him, straight at the crease in Harry’s brow, and his mouth scrunched uncomfortably, “What is it?”

Louis seemed to hover in his spot, like Harry was about to do something terribly heartbreaking.

“I love them. I really do, Louis. But,” Harry started, carefully putting the pocket watch back in the case, “I need to tell you something.”

Louis looked at him like he might cry. Harry could feel how stiffly he was sitting.

He pulled out the letter and gave it to Louis, awkwardly folded in a scrunched up mess, “It’s Margot. She’s… I think she’s setting us up.”

“What?” Louis asked incredulously, looking down at the paper in his hand.

“I found a secret door. That was in there.”

Louis opened the letter and scanned the words in silence.

“I…” He said as he kept his eyes on the page, “Oh, Harry. No.”

Louis looked up, “I’m sure this means something else, Mar would never. She’s- I trust her.”

“But how can that mean anything else?” Harry asked, “She hid it. She has a secret room and that was in it.”

“In the library?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s…” Louis put a hand to Harry’s back, “Love, she built that when she moved there. In case of intruders. In case people found out where she lived. It’s her panic room.”

“But there were grates that… Looked at us. Our room,” Harry’s face wore his discomfort.

Louis thought for a moment, twisting his mouth to the side, “They’re there to… So you could hide up there and see if someone was going through your things, see where they were in the house.”

“And the horn was to listen-”

“To the front door? Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry, I should have said something I guess. I didn’t even think about it, no one goes up there. Well, I thought before this,” Louis shook the letter, “I’m sorry if that made you feel…”

Upset? Violated? Yes.

Harry gave a sad smile, “It’s not your fault.”

Louis rubbed his lip.

“This letter,” Louis finally said, “I think we should just go and ask Margot. Get it sorted-”

“No,” Harry interjected, “Please. Don’t.”

Louis looked at him open mouthed.

Harry continued, “I don’t want to. In case- In case she is setting us up. If that’s okay.”

Louis was silent. Thoughts were running past his eyes. Then finally he talked, his voice more settled.

“Yeah, yeah of course,” He said, squeezing Harry’s shoulder, “Okay.”

“What do we do then?”

Louis thought for a moment, bringing his hand over to Harry’s thigh instead, “I think we work around Margot, we don’t tell her anything. She doesn’t even know our current plans, anyway. And we plan for Selene being there.”

 

It was Harry that came up with their solution.

They were going to plant the forged compass on Selene.

They were lying on the bed by then, going over how they could get rid of her at the party without giving themselves away, how to make sure she didn’t try anything, and how to do it without roping Margot into their plan. Louis was hitched up on his elbow and Harry lay on his back, watching shapes form in the dust particles swirling above them.

Louis suggested getting her kicked out somehow and then Harry said the magic words, “What if we could plant it on her and tell Hugo she’d stolen it?”

Louis gave Harry a look. It was a small one, curious, questioning. Then he started to click, started to think it over and realise how it would kill two birds with one stone. Three birds. They’d be able to get out scot-free, sway public opinion against Selene, and get her off their trail.

“Brilliant,” Louis said, “I think it might actually just work.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. It’s fucking great, Hon.”

“How do we get it on her?”

“We could...” Louis trailed off, shifting over to his back as he started to think.

Harry quickly offered up an impulsive answer, “I could try to slip it in her purse on my way back to you. So no one suspects still.”

But Louis shook his head. He explained that he didn’t want Harry to have anything to do with Selene, and certainly not anything to do with trying to get close to her purse.

“Keep the fake compass on you, so you can switch them like we planned. There’s no point banking everything on that letter even being sincere. But if we do see her, give it to me,” He’d said, “I’ll be the one to put it on her.”

“But,” Harry rebutted, suddenly seeing the flaw in his plan, “I don’t want to put you in danger either.”

Louis smiled, “You think I want  _ you _ in danger?”

Harry scrunched his nose. 

“Maybe we just… Try something els-”

“Nonsense, love. I’ve got it. Promise.”

“But-”

“And,” Louis emphasised, “There’ll be plenty of people around. I’ll do it somewhere busy. Be back in time to dob her in with you. No one will suspect me if I don’t leave the crowd.”

“Are you sure?”

Louis nodded brightly. Triumphantly. 

“Yes. One hundred percent.”

“I  _ can _ do it, though. For you.”

Louis thumbed Harry’s chin and looked right at him, “Harry, love. You’re doing more than enough getting the compass alone. What kind of person would I be to ask you to do this too? Let me. It’s not my first go around.”

Harry thought it over. He thought over how he wanted to be brave and how he’d give anything to keep Louis safe now that he had him. He felt like kicking himself for stupidly offering up the idea in the first place before he had the chance to actually think it through. Now he had no choice but to concede, to give Louis this one task. Louis had that look on his face, the one that walked the rope between bravery and recklessness. The one that had settled on a plan and that was  _ that _ .

Louis didn’t seem to overthink these things, he just decided to  _ do _ , and  _ did _ .

Harry was scared that his lion-heartedness was going to get them into deep, deep trouble.

“Promise me something though,” He said, staring back at Louis.

“Mm?”

“I want to do this as much as you, but if something goes wrong tomorrow, we leave. I can lose the compass but not you.”

Because it was true. Harry could cope if they missed out on the compass, if Margot had been double crossing them, and if Selene had them in her crosshairs and they needed to escape with just themselves. He couldn’t cope with being so bull headed in their ploys that he lost Louis in the process.

Louis shifted. He scooted over towards Harry and pushed him so he could spoon him from behind, put his lips right up to Harry’s ear.

“Absolutely,” Louis said, his voice straight and earnest, before he kissed Harry’s shoulder, “Anything for you, love.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He needed to say it.

“And Louis?” He started, his voice wavering. Timid.

The thought had snuck up before he realised, but he’d never felt so sure in his life. 

His willingness to drop everything they were chasing just for Louis had made him think it. 

The fact that Louis had been so quick to believe him and Harry feel safer, even when it went against the woman he’d grown up with, had given him the justification to say it. 

And the new plan to include Selene had given him the urgency to say it right there and then, lying in the afternoon light with his anchor in his arms and his lover’s lips against his neck.

“I think I love you,” Harry whispered.

He could feel Louis’ smile.

“I love you too, Harry,” He said back, quiet and sure.

 


	20. The Traitor.

Friday 

July 5th, 1935.

Cannes, France.

  
  


He was sitting on the bed when she returned to her hotel room, and folded up the newspaper he was reading at the sound of the door opening.

“Ah, there you are,” He said, smiling up at Selene who was still in the doorway, “Have a pleasant dinner?”

“It was fine, Father.”

He turned back to his legs and wiped at his trousers, dusting them off, “I trust you got my letter?”

Selene stood still in her place and kept her voice toneless, “The one you opened for me.”

Her father stood and straightened out his suit, put on his best smile, “Yes, darling. But need I remind you, you wouldn’t have gotten Margot’s message had I not. I was just looking out for you. You can’t blame a father for wanting to keep his only daughter safe, can you?”

Petulantly, she bit at her lip to stop the whining she so wanted to give him. There was no way that that was what he was doing. He just wanted to keep his claws hooked in her skin. She’d seen the way he pried her whole life. The glue on envelopes, the misaligned bookmarks in her diaries. 

“No ‘thank you’? No wonder your mother went mad.”

She couldn’t help it, “That was hardly to do with my manners.”

Her father looked at her, one eyebrow raised and grinned smugly, “No, of course not, darling.”

It had been the knives and the games from the both of them that had started it, but it was definitely her father’s want of a prettier, younger thing with more currency that had sent her off to a ward.

“How did you get in here?” Selene asked, watching as her father walked over to the kitchenette to pour two whiskeys. 

Her father tutted, “I asked.”

“You asked?”

“Yes. Sometimes asking nicely gets you to wonderful places. Like here, with you,” He walked over to her and handed her a drink and then stroked her cheek, “It’s always so lovely to see you, Selene.”

She sipped at the drink as he kept walking. Over to the radio.

“You know,” He switched the thing on so quiet music started and then looked up to her, “Playing nice can often get you so much further than playing with guns, darling. Your little mishap in Calais made the news.”

Selene scoffed into her drink, “At least one of us made the news.”

“Pardon?”

Selene coughed, “At least our names didn’t make the news.”

“That’s better. I must warn you, Selene. Trying anything like that tomorrow may not end so… Easily.”

Selene was quiet.

“Are you going to try anything?”

She stayed silent.

“Selene.”

“No, Father.”

“Wonderful. I think you’ll be much better off to follow my lead. I have no doubt Margot’s only going to get you in a mess.”

There was no way in hell she was going to play nice, let alone follow his orders. She’d managed to give herself a few years of a life of her own making, but he seemed to like the opportunity to snake his way back into her driver’s seat. Ever since he found his home trashed when she’d first lost the telescope.

Selene cursed herself out for that.

So she let him tell his piece but kept her glass to her lips so he couldn’t see her trying to bite her tongue. The golden liquid gave her something to play with, swirl around, something to look at that wasn’t her father trying to treat her like a puppy so he could drown her in a bag later. 

She was not going to tell him the plan she’d already set out. And that it didn’t involve him.

There was no way she was going to tell him about the name she’d branded into her mind all week of the man with the kind, sad eyes. The name of someone she was going to use to get to Louis and her telescope.

_ Harry Edward fucking Styles. _


	21. The Twilight.

Saturday 

July 6th, 1935.

Cannes, France.

 

The telescope was behind the bed and the gun was next to it.

The telescope was behind the bed and the gun was next to it, because taking a gun with them would be suicide.

Harry reminded himself of these little details as he flattened his suit against his chest. He was standing in front of the mirror in the corner of their room, one of those freestanding ones with a golden frame.

Louis had pushed the telescope down the gap between their mattress and the headboard. He’d done it because it was another habit of his, apparently. Important things don’t go in the hotel safe, they go in the cracks above beds. Where it would be too late in the day for maids to stumble across and anyone else looking for it would have to wake Louis to get to it.

Harry’s fingers shook as he tried to do his tie. He found it hard to concentrate on anything but the looming red that he was about to flood himself with. He wanted to prove he could do it, live in the same world as Louis, so he swallowed back the last of his fears and continue to fumble with his tie.

Louis was suddenly behind him, head resting on his shoulder.

“Hey,” He said, snaking his hands around his waist to rest over Harry’s.

“Hey,” Harry said back. He gave a small smile to say he was okay, he could do this. His hands betrayed him.

Louis took Harry’s right hand from his collar and brought it to his lips, “Need me to kiss away the nerves?”

That made Harry’s smile real. Small and tucked into Louis’ cheek, but real nonetheless.

He nodded. Louis kissed his wrist.

He peppered Harry’s wrist with kisses until he had turned him around and could give his lips a small, attentive kiss instead.

“Let me help,” He then said so he could do Harry’s tie for him.

“I can do it,” Harry added softly. 

Louis just shook his head and did his tie for him. He smiled when it was done, made perfect and pointy and as crisp as the lines ironed into their trousers.

“We’ll be fine,” Harry said as Louis brought over his box of gifts and clipped the pocket watch to the lining of Harry’s tailcoat. He was saying it just as much to himself.

“We will,” Louis said. He sounded peppy, but kind. Like he was coaxing Harry to believe the words he’d just said himself.

Louis pulled out the cufflinks and motioned for Harry to raise his hands, give him access to the ends of his sleeves.

Instead, Harry raised his hands to Louis’ and took the cufflinks from his fingers, “I want you to wear them.”

“Are you sure?” Louis asked softly, looking right up at him.

Harry nodded. He wanted to feel tethered to Louis the whole night, to feel like there was a part of him that would never leave his side even when Harry himself had to. If they both had their anchors, they’d make it out like two tied ships. Neither one lost to the night.

“So we can be close. Even if we can’t be.”

Louis nodded back to that.

“I like that,” He added.

Harry fastened the cufflinks into Louis’ sleeves and then turned so they were both looking into the mirror, side by side.

“Look at you,” He said to Louis as he watched him tuck away his fringe. He looked perfect. More perfect than he had in the tailor’s, without the pins and the prodding fingers. Maybe it was the light too, the sun had just started to set and all of Louis’ edges were gold.

“Look at  _ you _ ,” Louis smiled back.

They were quiet for a moment, taking in the last minutes they had to look at each other without restriction. Without a care. 

Harry reached his hand over to Louis’. He entwined their fingers and rubbed his thumb over Louis’ wrist. They shared little smiles. With each passing second they’d exchange a different one. A small one, a shy one, a knowing one, a chuckling one. They were tiny looks that said so much, a silent conversation held only by their eyes.

Harry raised his eyebrows and winked and Louis bit his lip and looked to his feet.

Louis was the first to break, the first to speak aloud.

“I have an idea,” He said, looking back up to Harry’s reflection and stifling a wide smile, “Dance with me while we still can.”

He led Harry by the hand to the other side of the room, where french doors opened towards the sea and lilac light washed in. There were two sofas on either side of a coffee table, so he left Harry at the edge of the sofa closest to the bed and pulled the coffee table out of the way. Pushed it right up against the wall.

They didn’t have a radio in their room, Harry had already noted, so he watched as Louis opened the doors and the sound of high tide became their song.

“May I have this dance?” Louis asked, bowing with his hand extended. Harry could hear the grin in his voice, the playfulness. 

Harry placed his hand as delicately, as lady-like, as he could muster while holding back a giggle.

Louis pulled him right into himself, like Harry had been a damsel in distress needing to be saved from a dragon, and proceeded to swirl him around the room. He was so dramatic, so silly, as he pulled Harry around, trying to sing through his laughs. 

Harry pulled Louis in close, to keep this moment from running away. He wanted the laugh that Louis always started things off with to shift into a hug, the reassurance he so needed. They  _ both _ needed. Louis latched on to Harry’s shoulders and didn’t pull away into another dramatic loop. He rested his head on Harry’s shoulder instead. His voice quietened until his singing was a quiet whisper and Harry was rocking them to and fro on the spot.

“I love you,” Louis eventually whispered as his hum fell away.

“I love you,” Harry replied, kissing the top of Louis’ head.

“I love you,” Louis repeated.

“I love you.”

Harry didn’t want to let go. He wanted to forget that this would be their only dance of the night, the only chance they had to hold each other and just exist in each other’s quiet. 

He knew they had to, had to go their party and pull their tricks and stay one step ahead of Selene and figure out if Margot was on their side or not. And he knew he was going to let go, was going to go to that party out of his own volition, because as Louis had continually said, he was  _ braver than you think _ .

So he savoured this moment, the feeling of Louis’ hand moving to his chest so their anchors were aligned, the feeling of his head on his shoulder, his swaying hips against his front. The closeness of it all. 

He savoured it as the sun went down and his blue sky turned purple.

 


	22. The Glove.

Saturday 

July 6th, 1935.

Cannes, France.

 

Selene got ready alone.

Her father had afforded her that.

He was still going to pick her up so they could arrive together, so that she could be escorted like any good woman should apparently be.

But at least she could get ready on her own. And she could get back to her own as soon as they arrived at Hugo’s. Could look out for Margot in her own time. Without her father’s watchful eye.

She wasn’t going to lure Louis away from the crowds like her father had mentioned, and catch him with words. No. She was a woman of action, a woman without a chaperone. She was going to wait for the perfect moment and take  _ action _ . In the crowd.

Selene waited to put her gloves on last.

She fastened her heels, preened the edges of her dress and then had a cigarette while she waited at her vanity.

She checked the time. It was eight forty. Her father would come by her room in five minutes.

So finally, she grabbed her purse and rolled on her gloves. 

When they were up to her elbows she slipped in the blade of a straight razor. 

The one she hadn’t told her father about.


	23. The Night of Red.

Saturday 

July 6th, 1935.

Cannes, France.

  
  


When they drove to the party, Margot sat in the front seat with Pierre and Louis lit a cigarette.

Harry, as it became his habit, took Louis’ lighter to keep in his pocket. The warm metal was a nice weight and he could flick it open and shut whenever his hands wanted something to do.

The car was quiet. Harry might even say tense. So he held Louis’ hand in his left hand and played with the lighter in his right.

“Have you made your plans for tonight, then?” Margot eventually asked.

Harry’s hand on the lighter cap froze.

Louis was quick on his toes though, “Of course. Nothing to get you in trouble, don’t worry.”

“Well thank goodness for that,” She replied, turning back to look at the two of them with a smile, “You’ll be the end of me if you upset anyone.”

Louis hummed happily, “I’d never want to do that, Mar.”

He was a good liar.

Pierre took them far into the hills behind the city. Street lamps dotted the road, tinging the trees on either side with warm gold. With each passing light, Harry flicked the cap of the lighter. Open. Shut. Open. Shut.

He could see the lights of the city below pop out of the trees every so often, each time smaller and dimmer, until he felt an entire world away from everything he’d ever known. The night sky above them had lost its blue.

He’d not slept well the night before. All his dreams had bled red. He’d woken every few hours to pictures of Louis lying on the ground covered in blood, his face unrecognizable. Harry would wipe at Louis to try and get the red off him, but it was like he was bleeding out of every pore and every wipe would only bring more blood. And then Louis would sit up and pull off his face and it would be Raphael and he’d wake up in a sweat. Other times Louis would turn into Selene and then she’d catch on fire and Harry would wake up mumbling questions about where Louis was.

Every time Louis would roll over to pull Harry into a sleepy hug and switch on the light if he needed. Then he’d kiss him until his breathing was right again and his body wasn’t so rigid.

The last of Harry’s dreams was different. He pictured himself walking into a great ballroom filled with people dressed in red, who would all turn to stare at him with uncanny smiles. He’d try to turn and leave, only to find his feet glued to the ground, and then his feet were gone all together and he was falling to the ground and a giant wave of red water would flood through the door behind him and sweep him into blackness.

So Harry watched as the city got smaller, and the tiny yellow dots shrunk into a glittering spot at the edge of his vision. And then they drove around a bend and trees covered his view and everything was consumed by the black of night.

He turned to where they were driving, where light came through the front window. Cars had started to line the road, parked on both sides. Their black car reflected back at them in the chrome that curved around the cars, each just as expensive as the next.

Up ahead, the road curved to the right and then it came into view.

Hugo Baptiste’s mansion, a classic french chateau that sprawled out in every direction, was so much bigger than Harry had dreamt. Perfectly square bushes were carved out of the ground, edging two mirrored paths that snaked up to the front steps. People were climbing the stairs towards the house itself that was lit up in bright gold light. The women sparkled, all their dresses in various shades of pink and red floating down the steps behind them.

Pierre drove the car up to the front step where a man opened their doors for them and extended an arm for Margot to take as she got out.

“Bonsoir,” The man said courteously as the got out and found their footing in a gravel of the driveway.

Louis nodded and took Margot from him so they could walk up to the door arm in arm. The steps were just too skinny for the three of them to walk together so Harry trailed behind and made sure to not step on Margot’s dress. 

He could already hear music floating out of front door, out of all the open windows too. They were open to the warm night, red curtains lightly swaying in the breeze. On either side of the front door itself, two massive red curtains dropped down from the roof and dived into red rose bushes. They looked like mast sails, reeling in the people in front of them like propellers under a boat.

Louis stopped on the last step in front of him and turned to Harry.

“You ready?” He asked, offering a reassuring smile.

Harry nodded. It was now or never and he wasn’t about to give up just because of a few bad dreams. He didn’t look at Margot.

Louis nodded back and then took the last step up to the door. Harry noticed how as soon as he put his foot down on the concrete in front of the door, Louis’ body language changed. He stood taller, straighter, tighter. Like he had a rod of steel up his spine that lifted him up and pulled his shoulders back.

He looked like the Louis he’d first seen on that day at Oxford.

Harry took a breath and straightened his own shoulders and touched a hand to his hair to check that his curls were holding place.

They were, so he promised himself he’d stay together too.

 

Walking into the mansion was like a dream, an actual dream. So much less real than the dreams he’d had the night before. Maybe it was the lighting that made everything glitter and feel slightly out of reach, like he’d already been drinking far too much. Maybe it was the mix of anxiety and the two shots of chartreuse they’d done just before they left.

The first thing he saw was the floor, black and white tiles. Perfectly square and ordered. Then he looked up and saw that tidal wave of red from his dream.

The ceiling and walls were draped in red curtains, across every inch. The chandeliers above shot out sparks of light onto them, like a red sky full of stars. In front of the curtains were long glass cabinets topped with crystal vases and statuettes that caught the lights brilliantly too. Inside the cabinets were little objects set out like they were in a museum. Watches, snuff boxes, sextants, carvings, compasses.

Louis caught Harry’s eye. He looked back to him and raised his eyebrows towards the far end of the right side cabinet. 

There, right in the corner of the hallway they were passing through, was what they needed. Their southward compass.

Harry tried to take it in as much as possible in the second it took to walk past it and into the ballroom. It sat open, the half globe of glass on view. The needle pointing to a 10 o’clock laurel.

It was gone within a second, passing in slow motion, and then Harry walked into the ballroom.

The sound was the first thing that hit him, the loud song of a band playing bopping notes together and a woman in a silk white dress singing glitzy tunes. They played on a stage, on the other side of the room and just to the left. In front of the stage was the sea of people. Every inch of the room in every direction was taken up by men and women in their best red clothes. All their faces shone with a pink glow as their clothes reflected under the massive chandelier that hung from the ceiling.

There were people up on the mezzanine floors that surrounded the main room, giggling over the bannisters as they looked down onto the crowd.

The tables were right at the front of the room, right where Harry and Louis needed to walk through.

Heads turned as they made their way past the round tables. They were clothed in white silk and topped with spilling drinks and the smudges of lipsticks, but Harry took more note of the faces.

They all looked scandalised. 

Their jaws dropped noticeably at the edge of their champagne glasses, and their eyes went wide as they followed Louis making his way into the room.

Louis paid no attention. He waltzed into the middle of the crowd so they were surrounded by people, right in the midst of it all. Where people were too close to gawk, and too drunk already to care.

Their bodies moved around the Harry, Louis and Margot as they danced and tittered and gossiped.

Here it was noisy enough that Louis could finally let down Margot’s arm and whisper in Harry’s ear.

“That’s Hugo,” He said, pointing at the front of the stage where a large, round hairless man was deep in conversation with a tall slender man with a mustache. The tall one was staring at Harry.

“And that next to him,” He continued, “The tall one, that’s Jean-Luc Martin. He’s vice president of the guild, and I think he’ll make the perfect target for a little spill.”

“He looks suspicious,” Harry said, noting the way Jean-Luc’s eyes didn’t leave him even as he spoke words to Hugo. They seemed blank, emotionless, and yet full of ideas as the same time.

“He’s a beady one, if you ask me,” Louis replied, “I reckon he’s always up to something. Pulling strings or something.”

Harry hummed, “Yeah, I see that. He looks like a mole.”

Louis chuckled under his breath, “I think he looks like a weasel.”

Margot had been picked up in conversation by someone behind her but she held herself close to Louis. Harry couldn’t tell if she was trying to overhear what Louis was saying to him.

He held his head closer so Louis could talk quieter just to be sure.

“But you,” Louis added, “You look gorgeous.”

Harry scoffed a little and shifted on the spot, trying not to give away how he wanted to smile. 

“So do you,” He whispered back.

“I wish I could dance with you.”

“It’ll be the first thing we do when we get home.”

He wasn’t sure what home he was referring, but he knew that there would be one for them somewhere.

Louis winked at him.

Harry looked around to see if anyone saw, but it seemed the scandal of Louis turning up had passed by and everyone was far more interested in their owns circles.

He let out a breath and smiled at Louis. They were here, they were doing this, and they were alright.

And maybe Selene was here too.

Harry looked around and tried to see if he could see her bright ginger hair amongst all the red.

He looked towards the front of the room, around the band, and then towards the doors. Louis must have caught on because he stood on his tip toes and started looking around too.

In the sea of people, Harry could only spot two red heads. One was a man, and the only redheaded woman he could spot had no air of familiarity to her. Her hair was duller, blonder than what he could vaguely remember.

Louis had shook his head in her direction anyway.

“Can’t see her anywhere,” Harry said under his breath. The letter must have been misunderstood, meant something else. Selene hadn’t come. Or at least hadn’t made it.

So they could stick to their original plan.

Louis hummed back with a smile. One that was too open, too friendly, to be anything more than a show for anyone who might look on.

Harry tried to wear it too, so that they might look like they were just in a normal conversation.

A waiter came past then and offered the two of them her tray of champagne. They took one each and continued to act the part, like they were just two friendly gentlemen that belonged at such a luscious event.

Margot still hovered. Her conversation partner, a tiny older woman with greyed teeth, was smiling up at her every word and Margot should have leaned in to her, leaned in close enough for the woman to not keep asking her to repeat herself.  

She didn’t. 

She kept her shoulder firmly at Louis’ side and shifted every time he did.

Harry was about to do something, reach out to Louis and pull him away, pull him deep into the crowd where Margot couldn’t see them. But someone had said Louis’ name and both of their heads spun.

It was a man, tall and square shouldered and with an angular face, high cheekbones. His hair had just started to grey at the front, bright against his light olive skin.

“Scott?” Louis asked as the man smiled down to him. 

The man, Scott, extended a hand. Louis took it and gave a short, courteous shake. 

Then Scott turned and directed his hands towards a woman that popped out from behind him. She was significantly younger than him, her dark hair as glossy as molasses and her eyes as young and as wide as Harry’s in his family photos from when he still lived at home. When he was still a teenager.

He couldn’t spot even one crease at the edge of her eyes.

“This is Annie,” Scott said, smiling at the girl next to him. He spoke in English. His accent matched. 

She smiled shyly and dipped her head. Louis reached out a hand for her to take and then kissed her cheeks to say his hellos.

Harry, of course, did the same.

“We married just a few months ago,” Scott added as they each leaned in for their kisses, “Down in Morocco.”

“That sounds lovely, Annie,” Louis said, looking in her direction, “How are you enjoying married life?”

“Oh,” She said, smiling softly, “It’s wonderful. So much easier than everyone had told me it would be. I think I might just be lucky.”

Her smiled grew as she looked up in Scott’s direction like a schoolgirl with a crush. He had the same sickly sweet look on his face.

Harry wondered if this was what they looked like every time Margot said, “You two.”

Or if she was just buttering them up to get them here.

“How did you two meet?” Harry asked, keeping his tone pleasant. Conversational.

Scott answered, “It was at Annie’s father’s funeral in the winter, actually. As horrid as that is. But we finally got talking after so many years of just ‘hello’ and couldn’t stop and had to get married right away.”

“Perfect timing really, who knows where I’d be if you hadn’t swooped in at such a time,” Anne added.

Scott hummed and then said, “Yes, it’s all seemed to just work out wonderfully, hasn’t it.”

“It must be so nice to have someone around again,” Louis said, tone a little flat.

Scott gave half a smile, “It is. I’m glad the girls have a mother again.”

Harry pictured his daughters whispering about a girl who could be their own age moving in. Scott looked old enough to have daughters bordering on adulthood, easily. 

“And,” Scott added, “By some luck, we’ll be having another.”

“Oh?” Louis asked.

“We’re finally able to tell everyone tonight, actually. Annie here is expecting at the end of Autumn.”

“Lovely,” Louis said, smiling at Annie, “You must be so excited.”

Harry couldn’t help but peer at her stomach, covered by folded layers of red organza. There was just the beginning of a bump there. Maybe.

She was so slight, so angelic. Harry could only imagine her being split in two.

He decided then that he wasn’t particularly taken by Scott. He could smile at the girl all he liked, it still left a sour taste in Harry’s mouth. He wanted to know what a man of his obvious age was doing with someone of such… obvious lack of age.

Scott seemed to lean down to Louis a little closer then, his expression turning a little serious.

“Actually, Louis,” He said, voice a little softer, “You wouldn’t be free to talk privately later, would you?”

“I-” Louis said, leaning back and bumping into Margot, “I’ll have to see if I’m still around, I’m just popping by tonight.”

“Oh, are you?” Scott asked, standing back onto the heel of his foot, “Surely tonight’s the night you’d want to stick around and enjoy.”

“I don’t-” Just then, Louis looked over his shoulder and then gave Scott a smile, “Actually, maybe you’re right.”

Harry looked over to where Louis had looked and saw the tall man he’d pointed out, Jean-Luc, coming in their direction. He was making his way to a waiter slowly moving nearer to them. It was almost too perfect.

Louis continued talking. 

“Harry,” He said, “Perhaps you’d like to find something a little sweeter than this to drink?”

He swished his champagne glass in Harry’s direction and widened his eyes for the smallest of seconds so only Harry would catch it.

This was it, then. Time to move. 

“Of course, I was just thinking I’d like something else,” He replied, keeping his tone level. They’d practised this. 

“Would you like anything?” He asked Scott and Annie. His voice was almost as sickly as the adoring look on Annie’s face.

They both shook their heads, Scott raising his own nearly full tumbler. Annie rubbed a thumb over her stomach.

Harry quickly turned on his heel and darted through the crowd, keen to get away from the mess that was about to happen so he wouldn’t be pulled back to help out.

It was on his tenth step that he heard it. The clatter of silver, the smash of glass, and Louis’ stressed voice.

Harry almost turned to look, the noise had actually caught him off guard. His nerves had come back and he was feeling flighty, like he was escaping.

He caught himself halfway to Louis’ voice, Margot’s too, and then realised what he was doing and swung back to the direction he needed to head in, through the dense crowd.

A body was in front of him.

He’d stumbled into the back of someone.

They’d made a sound. It was familiar.

Harry tried to just get past without saying anything though, he was on a time limit.

The person turned around.

It was Fletcher. His supervisor.

“Harry?” He exclaimed, a look of total confusion on his face, “I- What are you doing here? No, hang on a minute, where have you been the past month, you had me worried!”

“Oh,” Was all Harry could muster. This caught him off guard completely, “Uh.”

He was sure he’d left a note. Definitely did. Maybe.

Maybe not.

He couldn’t remember.

“I thought my best student had gone and died on me or something! Oh blimey, I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s me. All alright,” Harry tried to smile and look completely ordinary.

“What have you been doing all this time, Harry?”

Harry didn’t have the time to even come up with an excuse. All he could do was wave his hand flippantly and say, “Oh, you know. Family stuff. That sort of thing. I’m actually, uh, on the way to the loo. Sorry.”

Fletcher chuckled to himself and gave Harry a knowing look, “The drink’ll do that, won’t it.”

“Yeah, one too many for me!” He tried to fake a self-deprecating eye roll.

“Well I, for one, am glad to see you finally letting yourself off the clock for once. Come find me later though, I do miss having someone that actually listens to all my nonsense.”

Fletcher patted Harry on the back and gave him a smile, just as kooky as he remembered.

Quickly, he rushed towards the hallway they’d walked in from. There was no toilet out there, but there was no time to think about that. 

The doors were closed now, they’d obviously had all the people they cared about arrive and wanted to shut in all the bad behaviour that was sure to go on later.

Harry looked back to see if he could catch a glimpse of Selene one last time.

When he couldn’t, he slipped through the door and clicked it shut behind him.

The music suddenly dulled and he was alone in the quiet hallway. There was no one in the front door, no one hanging around in the quiet of this room.

He made a beeline for the cabinet, no time left to waste after stumbling into Fletcher.

Harry looked over the end cabinet. There was a glass section on top that contained the compass, surrounded by small pieces of jewellery and maps. Below that was the wooden base, fronted by drawers. 

Where the glass met the wood, there were two tiny latches so that the glass front could be lifted opened. Just like Louis had mentioned in all of their talks.

The latches were too small to have locks, only the size of of his pinky fingernail thankfully, so Harry could check over his shoulders and quickly flick them open. The right one was a little stiff, but Harry managed.

He couldn’t believe how easy this was. Although his stomach was in his throat and it felt like any surprise would send him flying through the roof with a scream.

Harry reached a hand under the glass and pulled out the compass, careful not to budge any of the other peculiarities that sat around it.

This compass was heavier than the one in his pocket.

Harry carefully placed down the glass front. His hands were sweaty and left little marks on the edge of it.

He opened his coat then and fumbled for the fake compass.

He pulled it out.

His heart was racing so fast it hurt. Harry forced out some breath. He always forgot to breath in moments like this.

Then, he placed the real compass in his pocket, where it sunk deep into his coat. He could feel his coat even slump a little to one side so the compass rested against his lowest rib.

He could feel something pressing into his back.

The thing in his back pressed harder.

He shifted forwards. Into the cabinet.

He reached out a hand to steady himself.

The thing in his back didn’t go away.

“What are you doing?” Came a voice behind him.

Harry swore to himself. This is where it all came crashing down.

He turned.

It was Selene.

She was holding a blade. Tiny and sharp. Like her.

She was holding it to his throat.

“What are you doing,  _ Harry _ ,” She repeated. She seemed to take delight in saying his name.

“I-” He mustered. He didn’t know what to do. All he could think was how naive their plan had really been. How dumb they’d been. How his plan was going to get his throat slit, and for what? For needing to make plans to come to this godforsaken party even when they found the letter. 

That letter should have bloody well ended all of this.

He should have told Louis that they couldn't go. At all. That they needed to come up with a plan that didn’t involve this party. This wild redhead. The red curtains. All this fucking red.

He could feel the red flood building up behind that door. It was about to burst through. Take Harry with it. Leave the hallway covered in blood.

Harry felt woozy. The red was swallowing him whole.

Everything was blurry. There were spots at the edge of his vision.

His feet weren’t solid on the ground.

Everything seemed to vibrate.

He was feeling so much and yet he couldn’t feel anything. Not the floor, not the compass in his hand, not the knife against his throat.

“What’s that?” Selene asked, pressing the knife a little deeper. It stung. It felt warm.

It was the only thing he could feel.

Harry shoved it towards her. Awkward, stilted, too hard. Right into her chest. He didn’t realise she was standing so close.

She took it from him and inspected it, turning it over in her hands.

“What is it?” She asked again, looking up at Harry.

“It’s…” Fuck, what is it?

“A compass,” He stammered.

“I can see that-”

“It’s a puzzle, the next clue,” He added. His voice was too quick.

He could see the way Selene’s eyebrows knitted together.

He’d started too truthfully, spilled the beans completely. He needed to come up with something that could get him out of this alive.

He needed to get Selene away from them. He needed her to think she’d won.

Her edges came a little more into focus.

“It’s a key to the lost works, uh, the telescope wasn’t even important, it just led to an empty hole. This is, this is what you need.”

“And you’re just offering it to me?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes.”

Selene looked at the knife she had against Harry’s throat, “Why?”

“I…” Harry felt his shoulders slack, “Because I don’t want this. I don’t belong here. I just want to go home.”

His home was on the other side of that door. He could feel tears starting to build in his eyes. He tried to blink them away so his vision didn’t go blurry again. 

A tear slid down his cheek.

Selene scoffed, “You didn’t even put up a fight.”

Harry swallowed. His adam’s apple pushed on the knife. It hurt.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t fight? Louis really knows how to pick them.”

Harry was out of energy, he wasn’t a fighter. Not alone. Not with someone like Selene. He wasn’t brave. He wasn’t good at this.

“Please just let me go.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I give up.”

“Sissy,” She taunted.

Harry had been called that all his life. He was used to it. All he could do was sigh. Wait for her to kill him.

The door opened. The music came sprawling through.

Selene pulled her hand away and smiled sweetly, “You’re fascinating.”

The person in the door stared at them as Harry bolted past Selene and ran back into the room with tears in his eyes.

He fumbled through the room trying to find Louis. He clawed through the crowd, searching with his hands for him. People were giving him strange looks, pulling back in fear.

And then there was Louis, standing in the middle of the room with a wet Jean-Luc and an upset Annie. There were waiters on the floor, clearing up the last glass shards and champagne. Louis was patting Jean-Luc down with a white cloth.

The entire thing was just as dramatic as Harry had imagined. Before it had all turned terribly wrong.

“Louis,” Harry choked, “Louis.”

Louis looked up to him and his face immediately fell. His eyes went wide and his hands froze. Then he dumped the cloth in Jean-Luc’s hand and pushed him away before stepping over towards Harry who was half slumped towards the ground.

“What’s happened?” He asked, keeping his voice quiet from onlookers.

Harry couldn’t get the words out now, it felt like the room was spinning and everyone was staring. Jean-Luc was staring. Grimacing. Harry couldn’t breathe. 

“Breathe, love. Breathe. Take deep breaths,” Louis whispered, rubbing Harry’s back. He stood between Harry and Jean-Luc so he couldn’t see them what they were saying.

Harry carefully blew out the air in his lungs and started talking, his voice shaky, “She had a knife. She almost killed me. I only got away because someone walked in. I- She took it.”

“Which one?” Louis whispered..

“Uh,” Harry stopped and tried to remember. Tried to think past his panic to the moments  _ before _ . He’d picked up the real one and opened his jacket and pulled out the fake one and, yes, “The fake.”

Louis let out an audible breath and gave Harry a smile, “Okay. That’s good.”

“It’s not. None of this is. I just want to leave.”

Louis didn’t even stop to think about it. He just stood taller and said, “Okay, yeah. Let’s get out of here.” 

Louis spun them around and started for the door out. A man stopped them.

A solid brick of a man.

“Non,” He said, an arm on Louis’ shoulder. In French he continued, “Stay here, thief.”

Louis looked around the room and Harry followed. Everyone,  _ everyone _ , was staring at them.

And Hugo was walking over with Selene by his side. She was smiling.

“You’ve stolen from me,” Hugo said when he arrived. He was obviously trying to keep his tone level but the red in his cheeks gave him away. He was seething, “My compass.”

Louis quickly stood up taller, “No, we haven’t.”

“You have, dog.”

“We haven’t,” Louis repeated, then added deftly, “Selene is the thief.”

“I am not!” She cried, horrified.

“She is. Check her purse.” Louis pointed at the black clutch Selene was holding.

“You’re a terrible liar!” Hugo spat, turning his head up.

And then Margot was at their side, Scott too.

“What’s going on here?” Margot asked, placing herself between Hugo and Louis.

“He stole from me, and now he’s going to get what’s coming. Leave us be, Lacau,” Hugo said to her.

“He can’t have,” Margot replied, “He’s been with me all night.”

“I have. See,” Louis added.

“Liars! I should have known you’d be a part of something like this!” Hugo said to Margot.

Scott pulled Margot back and stood over Hugo, “This is disgusting, Hugo. Accusing Louis like this. He was with us all night, just ask Jean-Luc.”

Jean-Luc was nowhere to be seen.

“We spilt a tray of drinks over him and have been cleaning it up together for goodness knows how long, Hugo. Don’t let your prejudices get in the way of the truth,” Scott added.

Hugo sucked in a shot of air and closed his eyes. His cheeks turned another shade darker.

“Are you the liar?” He asked Selene, eyes still shut.

“No!”

“Perhaps we should go somewhere else, Hugo,” Margot interrupted, “Quite frankly, you’re embarrassing yourself here.”

Hugo tried to keep his eyes trained only on Louis, tried to make it look like he wasn’t going to be told what do it. 

But he slipped.

He looked away for a split second.

Hugo was quiet for a moment and then he stood taller and said, “Search them all, Robert. All of them.”

He looked right at Harry.

Who had the real compass in his coat.

The tears felt like they might come back.

But Margot was right next to him now. Her hand was on his shoulder. She was squeezing it, rubbing it with her thumb.

“I’m sorry about all of this, pet,” She said as they were led from the crowd towards a door at the side of the stage. People shifted out of the way so they had a clear path. Hugo was at the front, followed by Selene, Louis, the oaf of a man Robert, Harry, Margot and then Scott.

Harry needed to get rid of the compass. He could slide it across the floor, out in the sea of people, but that would be so obvious.

Now was his only chance, Harry supposed. It was now or never.

He tried to come up with an idea.

Margot was right behind him. He didn’t know if she was on his side or Selene’s, but at this point it no longer mattered. Getting out did. A few old papers were worth far less than his life. Or Louis’.

So he reached into his pocket as inconspicuously as possible and made it look like he was reaching for his pocket watch.

With the compass in his hand, he carefully slowed. Margot came closer.

He pressed it back into her and held it there as she quickly noticed and took it. 

Judging by the faces of the people around them, they hadn’t noticed. They were far more interested in Louis and Selene, walking ahead of them in silence.

Louis looked back at him. His face looked hollow.

When they reached the room, Margot slipped away. Completely unnoticed. Not even Scott said anything and he was walking behind her.

When the door shut behind them, Hugo punched a wall. He swung around and almost punched Louis, but hit the wall behind him instead.

He cursed and then shoved Louis, who let him. He let his shoulder swing backwards into the dent in the wall. He didn’t let any emotion out. Didn’t wince.

“Search him, Robert,” He blasted as he sat down heavily on a sofa.

Robert was rough with Louis. He shoved at his tailcoat and his trousers and pulled violently at him. Again, Louis let him. He was completely silent. Completely still. Like he’d exited his body and they were picking apart a corpse. 

Robert came up empty.

Hugo bared his teeth and swore in French, “You disgusting little cunt!”

Louis was stone faced. He didn’t even look at Harry.

He only looked over when Robert started pulling at Harry, because it was his turn next. 

Having seen how Louis was treated, Harry tried to open his jacket to make the whole thing easier for the both of them. Robert just smacked his hands away and yanked Harry’s buttons open so they popped off.

When he checked the inner pocket of Harry’s coat, he pulled out the pocket watch with enough force to tear the fabric around it. He shoved it into Harry’s chest hard enough for him to lose some breath but he quickly caught the pocket it and looked over at Louis.

Louis looked it hanging from Harry’s hands and bit his lip.

When he found the lighter in Harry’s pocket, he tossed it to the floor.

Louis picked it up.

Robert again came up with nothing and Scott sniggered.

“I think we’re done here,” He said.

“Selene first,” Louis said, looking up at him without expression.

Scott looked back to Hugo. His face unreadable.

Hugo rolled his eyes and motioned for Selene to be checked.

There wasn’t much to look through and Robert seemed uncomfortable with manhandling her like he’d done the others, so he patted her sides and stepped away.

“Rien,” He said.  _ Nothing _ .

That didn’t fit. She had it. Must have put it in her purse.

Which she didn’t have.

Harry started, his voice cracking, “H- Her purse.”

“Huh?” Hugo snapped towards him.

“You need to check her purse.”

Selene scoffed at him, “I thought you weren’t a fighter.”

“I- I thought you weren’t a thief,” Harry said back. He tried to sound as steady as he could muster. Like he could play this game too.

Robert checked around the room, pulling back at sofas and tables. They were in some sort of small drawing room. 

It was in the bookcase, the one just behind Harry. She must have slipped it there as they walked in.

Robert pulled it out with a satisfied look and flicked it open.

He plucked out the knife. And the compass.

Hugo looked at it and then looked at Louis, and then Selene and then back to Louis.

“Get out,” He spat, “And don’t you ever come back here. I never want to see your face again, boy.”

Louis finally showed emotion then. He smiled.

As honest a smile as Harry had ever seen.

He smiled at Hugo and then smiled at Harry.

“Perfect,” He said, leading Harry out the door.

Selene had to be restrained.

 

When they entered the ballroom again, everyone was again staring.

Harry could see Scott and Annie leaving.

They should have left right then too, but Louis turned and went for the stage instead. The band went quiet.

Harry presumed he was asking for the microphone because the singer handed it over with a confused and hesitant look.

“Well,” Louis announced once he had the microphone, “You’ll be pleased to know that Ms. Selene has just been apprehended for attempting to threaten some guests with a knife and steal from Monsieur Baptiste. I just wanted to apologise for the interruption in this splendid evening, though I’m sure it’s all given you a fascinating story to tell tomorrow.”

Louis leaned down to a waiter at the base of the stage and plucked one of the drinks from their tray, “Perhaps we might like to have a quick toast to the wonderful Hugo Baptiste. He’s done an excellent job with keeping you all safe tonight.”

Louis raised his glass and slowly but surely, and so did the crowd before him.

With a smile, he said, “To Hugo!”

And as Hugo came through the door to the room full of guests, they all turned to him and said, “To Hugo!”

Louis swigged back his champagne and jumped off stage with a smile. He winked at Harry and then pulled him outside.

Hugo stood there, watching them leave, completely dumbfounded.

 

As they walked down towards the bottom of the front steps outside, they could see that Pierre was already waiting for them. He stood to attention with the back seat door open for them to slide in.

“How did you do that?” Louis asked, slowly hopping down two stairs at a time just in front of Harry.

“I gave it Margot.”

“You what?” Louis asked, stopping on his stair and looking back at Harry.

“As we were going through the crowd to that room, I just sort of gave it to her.”

“But what if she’s, you know, on Selene’s side?”

“I honestly just wanted to get rid of it.”

“Huh.”

Harry offered him a smile.

“Well two things, then,” Louis said as Harry stepped onto the same step as him and they started walking together, “I am so, so proud of you. You got out of that completely,  _ completely _ , on your own. I can’t believe you did that. I knew you could, you can do anything, love. Anything. But that was scary. I’m sorry for putting you through that.”

“It’s okay, Louis,” Harry said, knocking their hands together, “Don’t apologise. I wanted to come, it’s not your fault.”

Louis looked at him, mystified and smiling, “How are you like that?”

“Like what?”

“This stuff I do, what we’re doing together, it’s  _ not _ normal. You were in tears back there, and yet now. Now you’re okay. You just get on with it.”

“ _ You _ just get on it with.”

“Yeah, but I’ve had to learn the hard way that it is what it is and that you just have to keep going. But you, you feel things so much and yet,  _ you _ keep going. It’s amazing.”

Harry rolled his eyes, he didn’t want this to turn into a lecture about how he was amazing because he  _ felt _ things, because he was soft and he cried, and yet still got on with it. Because it didn’t feel like he just got on with it, happy go lucky. It felt like his fears would swallow him up whole and that he felt too much too often, and he thought too much about everything.

But, Harry supposed, every time something scary had actually happened to him, he’d made it out the other side. He’d moved on. Every fist he’d ever taken to the face, every ridicule he’d ever been taunted with, every knife wielding redhead he’d ever come face to face with, he’d always made it to a new day.

Perhaps that was what ‘getting on with it’ meant. Surviving. Not necessarily forgetting your scars, but not letting them stop you from trying again.

Maybe he’d been doing that his whole life.

Maybe he was better at surviving than he’d believed.

Maybe tonight was more of a success than he thought.

And maybe, he might have cried in the face of a murderer and begged for his life, but surely that was normal. That was a normal response. He could be proud that, as fumbled as it was, he had pulled one over on her and gotten him, and Louis, out of that whole situation.

“I did do good, actually, didn’t I?” Harry paused and looked out towards the twinkling stars at the edge of the sea, where he could see he hadn’t really left real life in the first place.

“You did,” Louis stated, pausing too so he could quickly wrap an arm around Harry’s waist, “Far braver than you think.”

Those magic words.

They walked five more steps, almost right at the bottom, when Harry finally asked, “And what was the second thing?”

“Oh, yeah. Pierre’s still waiting for us, so Margot must be in there.”

Harry took a breath and sent himself right to the car, propelled by the determination he’d just found within himself.

 

Margot was sitting in the back seat, waiting for them. The compass was in her lap.

“Good,” Harry breathed, hopping in the car.

“Good?” Margot scoffed, “I don’t think I’ll ever be allowed back.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” Louis offered as he slid in after Harry, “And I think Harry meant good as in, it’s good that you’re not in cahoots with Selene.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well,” Louis started as the car pulled away.

Harry continued for him, “I have to confess, I found a letter at yours from Selene, saying that-”

“Oh, not that piece of rubbish. Heavens, I was going to throw that out.”

“You hid it though, Mar,” Louis added.

She pressed her lips together and looked at the compass in her lap, “Yes, well, not quite. I went up to the attic to read it, I didn’t want you to see and worry. But then I heard you two mention getting paper in the library and left in a bit of a flurry.”

Harry thought about the grates that looked down on the bath they shared. He pressed his fingers into the inner of his eyes and sighed.

“Oh, Harry. I’m sorry.”

Louis looked at Harry and then back to Margot, “You haven’t been up there any other times, have you? Not been snooping on us?”

Margot went a touch red and held a thumb to her mouth before clicking and saying, “Oh, no! Heaven’s no. That was the first time I’ve been up there in over a year. I wouldn’t do that.”

Louis clasped Harry’s thigh until he took his hands from his eyes and met his hand.

“You have no idea the stress you’ve caused us, Mar,” Louis sighed, “No bloody idea.”

Margot looked quite embarrassed, “I’m sorry, love. I really am.”

Harry looked up from where he was staring at the hands in his lap then, “Hang on a minute.”

Harry quickly plucked the compass from Margot’s hands and then opened it like he was inspecting it, like he wasn’t trying to protect it. 

Even though he was.

Both Margot and Louis turned to look up at him.

“Why would she send that letter to you in the first place?”

“She-” Margot started and then stopped and looked for the right words.

She sighed and finally said, looking at the compass in Harry’s hands, “Stupidly, I had sent her a letter to warn her against coming. I was an idiot to think she wouldn’t see that as a challenge.”

“And then you didn’t say anything?” Harry asked again, still cautious.

“I- No. No I didn’t.”

“...Why?” Louis asked.

“I just didn’t want to worry you. She wouldn’t dare do anything with me around.”

“She would,” Harry added, touching a hand to the mark on his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Was all Margot said.

They drove down the winding hills until the city lights were upon them and Harry could finally see the detail in the compass. It looked exactly like the one Liam had made.

“Well, we did it, I suppose,” Louis offered up eventually. He looked at Harry playing with the compass with a smile and squeezed his thigh, “You did it.”

“ _ We _ did it,” Harry said. He returned Louis’ smile, “Together.”

They were a team.

Harry planted a hand firmly over Margot’s eyes and chuckled when she made a bemused sound.

“This is your punishment,” Harry told her.

And then he planted a kiss firmly on Louis’ mouth.

He could feel Margot grab his hand and pull it harder against her face like she was hiding. But he could feel the raise of her cheeks, the edges of a grin.

He smiled into the kiss and Louis pulled his face in closer.

“Look at us,” Louis whispered when Harry pulled back.

“Look at us,” Harry repeated with a wink.

“I’m glad I can’t,” Margot added.

 

When they got back to the hotel, Harry accidentally left the compass on the back seat. He was too preoccupied with the look Louis was giving him. 

In their room, Harry banged the door shut behind them and said, “We are not doing that again.”

He was smiling.

Louis didn’t give him the chance to say anything else.

He was a flood of blue.

He spun around and slammed Harry back into the door, his hands hanging off his lapels. His mouth went straight for Harry’s mouth, where he covered in him desperate, open mouthed kisses. 

Harry chuckled against Louis’ mouth but let him kiss him, let him pull Harry’s lips between his.

“You. Are. So. Amazing,” Louis said between kisses.

Harry put his hands in Louis’ hair and pulled him as close as their bodies would allow.

“You. Are,” He said back as he kissed towards Louis’ jaw. His neck.

Louis keened as Harry nipped at the space just below his ear but managed to mumble, “Tonight was. A lot. Let me-”

Harry picked Louis up and spun them around, so Louis was hitched up against the wood of the door.

Louis sighed and tried to get out the rest of his words, “Let me, let me make it better.”

He wrapped his legs up around Harry’s waist.

“How?” Harry whispered against Louis’ ear, and then kissed his jaw again.

Louis knocked his head back against the door so his neck was entirely exposed. He pulled Harry in with his legs so he could move this hips together.

“Let me give you anything you want.”


	24. The Lovers. (Explicit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. I've separated the smut into its own chapter since I know some people like having it in there, some people don't. This way you can skip to the next chapter if you want! I've written it so you won't miss anything important if you do skip it.

“Anything?” Harry asked against Louis’ neck.

Louis looked down at him and smirked, “Everything. What do you want?”

Harry thought for a moment and then he said, “I want to be taken care of.”

“Me do all the work?”

“No, just you do what you want. Don’t ask,” He kissed Louis’ lips softly, “Do.”

Louis seemed to understand, Harry wanted him to let Harry take the back seat, be the one that watched and  _ felt _ and could just fall back into the feeling of Louis’ lips all over him so he could forgot the world around him. He didn’t want to think, just wanted things to happen for - to - him.

Louis pushed Harry’s body away from him so he could stand and didn’t say anything. He held sharp eye contact with Harry as he held his chin and kissed him, short and with purpose, before turning them so Harry was the one against the door.

He kept staring as he popped Harry’s buttons one by one and tugged on his bow tie. It slipped away easily and Louis dropped it to the floor.

He was standing so close to Harry, his face only centimetres away. Harry could feel his breaths, long and drawn out, wisp down his chest.

His chest was bare now.

Louis had opened all his buttons. He’d popped the very last one and tugged his shirt open so Harry’s skin was on show. It had been too warm to wear an undershirt, and he didn’t think anyone could tell.

Louis smirked when he saw the bare skin beneath Harry’s shirt. He drew a finger down his chest, from his neck to his waistline.

As his finger stroked over the skin to the right of Harry’s belly button, where his skin dipped at the edge of his abs, a shock of warm went through his body. His skin glittered and he twitched, the fly of his trousers shifted towards Louis.

Louis’ smirk hung open a little, his jaw a little slack. Harry could hear his breaths then too, he could hear the tiny smack of saliva in his mouth as he looked down at Harry’s trousers and dropped his tongue from his top teeth. Like he was hungry.

Louis looked back up at Harry, at his lips. 

Harry licked his lips, wanted Louis to kiss him again without him asking.

Louis drew a thumb to Harry’s mouth, swiped it across his bottom lip slowly before he finally moved his fingers and put his index finger in Harry’s mouth.

Harry savoured it. Louis tasted like champagne, the fuzzy dregs at the bottom of the glass. He swirled his tongue over it, around it, up it. He did it as slowly as the movement of Louis’ eyes from his lips to his eyes.

Harry tipped his head back so Louis’ finger caught in his bottom lip, tugged his mouth open ever slightly.

Louis kept his eyes on Harry’s. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He kept staring as he pulled his finger from Harry’s mouth and put it in his own.

He sucked on it so his cheeks went hollow, and the light above caught on his cheekbones.

Harry twitched again.

Louis smirked. 

He pressed himself up against Harry so he could feel he was just as hard.

Harry throbbed. There was kindling in his trousers and he needed to be touched, needed Louis to grab at his skin, at his arms and his waist and his shoulders, so the fire could spread.

Finally, Louis kissed him again.

His mouth was wet, his lips gliding over Harry’s as he licked at him. Harry lapped him up, he couldn’t help but hold either side of Louis’ head as they kissed.

Louis held his fingers over Harry’s. He could feel Louis’ wet finger slip against his knuckle.

He twitched and kissed Louis harder.

He pulled on Louis’ bottom lip with his own, nibbled on it too. He caught it between his teeth and brushed his tongue along it.

Louis let him do that for only a moment before he shifted his head more to the side and opened his mouth a little wider. Their tongues met and lapped at each other, small passionate movements around the soft wet around them.

Harry loved his ocean boy, so blue, so wet.

Louis tugged the sleeves of Harry’s coat and shirt off his shoulders and down his arms as he tasted the last of Harry’s mouth. He pulled back and wordlessly plucked Harry’s hands from the sides of his head.

He put them in his hair instead.

Slowly, Louis shifted downwards. He shifted to his knees so he was kneeling. And looking up at Harry through his eyelashes.

Harry bit his lip and closed his eyes at the fire growing within him. He pushed out his hips. Louis was close enough that doing that bumped his crotch, hard and pounding, against his bottom lip.

Louis drew his lip up Harry’s fly. He was still staring up at him when Harry opened his eyes again. 

He finally moved his hands towards Harry’s fly, pulling his mouth away with a bitten bottom lip so he could unzip him.

Louis let Harry’s trousers drop unceremoniously, but he pulled at his underwear with the practised speed of a song in larghissimo.

Slowly, his waist band came down, and his penis popped up. Thick and heavy and needing Louis’ wet mouth.

Louis grinned knowingly up at him and gave the head of it a quick, teasing lick.

He pulled back and chuckled as Harry’s hips moved forwards.

Harry was beginning to learn this dance. Louis wouldn’t take him in his mouth until the very last moment, when the life had almost left Harry’s body altogether.

Louis brought his hands to Harry’s hips. He gripped them tightly and kneaded at his arse. It almost hurt, how hard Louis kneaded him. Needed him. His hands were always so tight around him, grappling at the fleshiest parts of him.

He liked it though, and pushed his penis towards Louis’ mouth.

Louis went around it and licked his tongue up the crevice between Harry’s thigh and his front. He went right up from where Harry’s testicles hung, to the tan line from his waistband.

Harry kept his pubic hair short. He trimmed it so Louis could get his tongue in more spaces, more crevices. He slowly moved back down Harry’s front, peppering his skin with licks and nips and suckles until his lips were over his balls.

Louis tipped his head sideways so Harry’s penis wouldn’t get touched and lapped at the delicate skin.

He was so good at this, Harry thought, too good. He always knew how to work Harry until he was about to give up. Until the thought of pulling away and dealing with himself seemed like the only way out. Then he’d always give Harry exactly what he wanted.

Louis’ lips moved backwards. He shoved Harry’s legs apart, forced them out of the trousers around his ankles, so his tongue could reach the edge of Harry’s perineum. He flicked his tongue back and forth and Harry went up on his tippy toes.

A sound came out of Harry’s mouth. Stilted and guttural. 

Louis pulled away and replaced his tongue with his two middle fingers. He rubbed them in small, delicate circles as he finally looked at the head of Harry’s penis.

He flicked his tongue out and gave it a short lick so it jumped up and Harry felt another warm bolt shoot through his gut.

Louis kept rubbing at Harry’s perineum, his favourite spot, as he finally,  _ finally _ , opened his mouth obscenely and took Harry in.

He took him deep, keeping his tongue flat and wide along the underside of his shaft so his mouth felt completely soft. Completely wet.

As he pulled back, Louis swirled his tongue over the underside of the head and Harry jutted forwards. He made another sound.

Louis breathed out a grin and then went back in.

He only gave Harry soft, slack movements back and forth. All the way in and all the way, without sucking. Without his cheeks going hollow.

Harry tightened his grip in Louis’ hair.

Finally, he sucked. His mouth swivelled around the head of Harry’s penis as he concentrated on just the tip. His cheeks hollowed and they looked beautiful.

Louis looked up at him. His eyes looked wide, innocent. Like an angel.

A filthy angel.

He pushed his mouth further over Harry’s penis and drew back a long, hard suck. 

Harry breathed out a low sigh, tipped his head against the door behind him. As Louis started moving back and forward, sucking on him properly, Harry closed his eyes and let himself just feel.

His body was warm. Hot. The door against him was cool. There was sweat on the back of his neck, on his brow, down his back.

He felt the wave of heat in his groin build. It grew slowly as Louis bobbed his head and moved his fingers. He could feel it building to a white hot peak at the base of his penis, right where Louis was pressing.

He could feel the waves getting bigger, closer together. His toes curled into the carpet and lifted him up an inch taller, pushing against the door and Louis’ head. His fingers in his hair gripped into a fist.

Louis pulled away.

He dropped his hands from the space between his legs and drew his mouth from Harry’s penis.

A sparkling drop of saliva clung to his lip before he licked it away.

Louis smiled, “Bed.”

Harry let out a shaky breath and came back to the ground, down from where he’d been keening on the balls on his feet.

Louis stood up and gave Harry his hand, so he could lead him to the bed. He pushed Harry down so he fell against the duvet. 

As Harry lay back and looked up at him, Louis stood at the end of the bed and finally started to remove his own clothes. He held his head high, and with a smile, as he unbuttoned his shirt.

He dropped his tie and his tailcoat to his feet. When he got his shirt and undershirt off, though, he threw them at Harry.

He caught them with a chuckle and dropped them on the bed next to him.

“I love you,” Louis said as he tore open his trousers, his hands snapping his buttons open so they might as well break.

“I love you,” Harry said back, sitting up so he was sitting on the edge of the bed and louis was  _ right there _ . He tried to help Louis with his underwear, he could see his penis pressing so deliciously against them and he wanted it now.

Lous shoved him back into the bed.

He winked.

Then he dropped his pants and Harry couldn’t wait.

Louis was on top of him right away, sitting across his waist. Legs either side.

His arse right over Harry’s penis.

Louis leaned forward and took Harry’s wrists, held them against the bed.

He looked down at Harry wordlessly, just blinked a few times at him.

Harry stayed silent too. He kept his eyes trained on Louis’ wet, salted lips, and his mind on the weight against his penis.

“I love you, Harry,” Louis finally whispered, “You’re so perfect.”

Harry leant up to Louis and tried to kiss him.

Thankfully, Louis let him.

They kissed long and slow and like they missed each other. Louis let go of Harry’s left hand and brought his own hand to Harry’s chin. He held it delicately and Harry’s jaw moved in time to Louis’.

His hips moved too. Up and down so he could rub against Louis.

“Do you want me to?” Louis asked, pressing his arse down against Harry’s penis.

Harry closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of Louis riding him. It felt good, felt amazing, but it wasn’t what he wanted.

He wanted his whole body to light up. He wanted Louis to hold him close and cover him completely. He wanted him to fill him up so his orgasm would feel like a thousand candles dripping across his whole body.

But he didn’t want Louis to have asked him, made him think about it, made him the one to lead. He just wanted things to happen to him.

So Harry just lazily, wordlessly, shook his head.

Louis smiled and nodded and kissed Harry again. He kissed Harry passionately as he wandered his fingers over his body, down the inside of his thigh and past his perineum.

Harry shifted his legs apart and raised them at the knees so Louis could get there easily. He felt the familiar press of Louis’ middle finger against him. Just sitting there, pressing the tiniest amount.

The hot weight in Harry’s stomach shifted. His penis throbbed once more, jumping up half a centimetre. Louis pressed back against it so Harry’s penis rubbed against his own hole.

That only made Harry’s penis throb more. He lifted his hips as Louis kept his mouth on his lips.

Louis started to move his finger in circles. Pressing down on him, but never pressing in.

This is what Louis did, he built Harry up slowly until he was practically bouncing on him. He said he did it so Harry could take him easier.

It always worked.

He kept circling Harry’s hole with just one finger until the ball of fire within Harry had shifted backwards, moved from his penis and his gut to include his arse as well. His entire middle felt electric.

Once Harry had started to clench everytime he moved his finger just right, Louis pulled his hand and his mouth away. He opened his mouth and pooled saliva on the end of his finger, and then tucked it back between Harry’s thighs.

The saliva made Louis’ finger feel cooler and it sent a shiver up Harry when he pressed it back against him. Steadily, Louis pressed his finger into Harry. Inside him.

It glided in, with Harry pushing downwards to he could get it in further.

It felt like Louis was plucking his strings. The smallest movement would fill him with tension, a sense of fullness, and he’d have to shift against Louis’ finger to let it go. Pang the note up through him to come out his throat as a muffled groan.

When Harry has rocking back and forth rhythmically, praying to feel more full, Louis pulled his finger away and rolled off him.

He rolled to the left so Harry could turn and lay half on top of him, his left leg wrapped over Louis’ stomach. His left arm across his chest and bent up towards the side of Louis’ head so he could cradle it.

Harry kissed Louis again. It was his favourite thing to do. He slowly lapped at his lips, at his tongue, at his smile.

Louis brushed the hair out of Harry’s face before momentarily pulling away to spit on his fingers again, his middle and his ring finger this time.

He filled Harry back up, slipping one finger in and then the other, and starting to push in and out in little wave motions.

He started slow but worked his way up until Harry couldn’t kiss him anymore. He had to push his face into the duvet and concentrate on just being able to breath.

His breaths still came out stilted, separated by little moans every time Louis moved a little faster.

It was speed that loosened Harry up, the feeling on his hole being pushed into itself and then released faster and faster that got him ready.

He arched his back forwards so his hips pressed into Louis’ and his moans became breathier. His penis felt so heavy against Louis’ stomach.

He loved it.

Louis kissed his shoulder as he worked away, let his teeth drag over Harry’s honeyed skin.

He pulled his fingers right out and Harry’s hole fluttered, he wanted them back. He pushed his arse out as if he might catch Louis’ fingers.

Louis spat in his hand. Harry’s head was still in the duvet, completely mossed over by his hair, but he could hear the wet sound of Louis’ lips.

Harry felt Louis’ penis against him. The tip against his hole. The pressure of him pushing it in.

Harry sucked in a wisp of air. His hole quivered. His stomach fluttered. His heart stammered. 

Louis was in him.

They lay still for a moment as Harry adjusted. He started to shift though, when he could take the movement.

As Harry breathed in time to the little wave of his hips, Louis turned his face towards him so they could kiss.

When their lips touched, Harry’s already hot and wet and red, Louis started to slowly thrust into him. He kept his movements slow and steady and kissed Harry through his waves of overflowing fullness.

Harry’s lips had started to feel full too. Swollen from all the kissing and the pressing into the duvet.

He pulled his lips from Louis’ so he could moan freely and let Louis move a little faster.

Their breaths started to sync up. Short, heavy breaths against each other’s ears. The sound of Louis’ moans, so light and delicate and keening, right in Harry’s ear made him feel delirious. He was so full, so full of feeling inside him and sound around him. 

He gripped the duvet next to Louis’ head tightly.

Louis moved the arm tucked under Harry to hug him, grab his shoulder tightly.

He reached his free hand between them and stroked Harry’s penis. Perfectly in time with their breaths.

He thrusted harder.

Harry gripped the bed tighter and let out rough moans, louder and louder.

The headboard clanged against the wall but Harry had no care to check on the telescope stuffed in that gap.

Louis shifted so they were both of their sides facing each other, so he could get deeper in Harry. Get the right angle.

He did.

Harry swore.

Louis thrust into him hard and perfect and tugged on him too and Harry felt like he was going to combust.

His face was hot, slick with sweat. His hair was stuck to his forehead. The duvet stuck to him. 

Louis stuck to him.

He was going to come.

It felt like Louis could sense it, could see the wrecked look on Harry’s face behind the hair in his eyes. He rolled them over more so Harry was on his back and Louis was thrusting him down into the bed, his hands moving to hold down Harry’s wrists. 

He thrusted for five beats as the fire in Harry grew. It took him over on the sixth one, right when Louis thrusted his hardest and started to say, “I’m go-”

Harry arched his back up off the bed, his wrists the only thing tying him down, and let out a low, ruined cry.

All the heat in his body went white and shot through him.

His hole went tight around Louis and come spurted across his stomach, smudged by the last thrust Louis had in him.

Louis came in him then, his mouth going wide as he swore through his orgasm. His hips stuttered against him, his whole body convulsing.

Then he fell down against Harry and let out a shaky breath.

They lay still for a few moments. Though Louis could never handle being inside Harry for long after he’d finished. He winced as he pulled out and hot come dribbled out onto the bed.

They cleaned up with Louis’ undershirt. It was the closest thing they could find, so it did the job. Neither of them had the energy to run a bath, to wash the come away before it dried in uncomfortable patches amongst their body hair. 

Instead, they lazily wiped themselves off and shoved the duvet completely off the bed so the bed only had sheets on. Harry rolled under the sheet, trying his damndest to not pick any of his weight up off the mattress. 

The bed was still uncomfortable, the sheets too warm, their skin too sweaty, but Harry didn’t care. The day had sucked the life out of him and the sex had sucked the worry out of him. He was drunk on love and could sleep anywhere in this moment.

Louis was a little more put together. He pulled the sheets back to Harry could roll under quicker and then flicked off the light.

“I love you, honey,” Louis whispered in the dark once he hopped into bed and pulled Harry’s body towards him.

“I love you so mu…” Harry mumbled happily. Completely gone and halfway asleep.

No red dreams came that night.

  
  



	25. The Nightmare.

Sunday 

July 7th, 1935.

Cannes, France.

  
  


Harry woke to a shiver and a strange sweet taste in his mouth. 

His wrists hurt and he couldn’t move them.

They were above his head. He couldn’t bring them down.

As he came to, a wave of nausea hit him.

He needed to vomit but he couldn’t move.

He forced his eyes open, though they wanted to droop and fall back shut, and tried to see what was stopping his hands from moving. 

They were tied up.

Harry really needed to vomit.

He tried to sit up, pulling on the rope that had bound his hands together against the headboard. He struggled, his body felt so heavy, so strange and limp, and vomit sat at the bottom of his throat.

He looked next to him and there was Louis, tied up exactly the same. Except Louis was completely unconscious. Because he was smaller than Harry, his body was sitting up a little to reach the bar at the top of the headboard. His head was slumped to one side.

Harry tried to wake him, tried to put out a leg so he could shove him with his knee.

“Lou!” He cried. It sent a spark of pain through his head. 

Louis didn’t respond. His body shook and his head lolled, but he didn’t wake.

Harry yanked his hands, tried so hard to shake the rope off them. 

They didn’t budge.

Someone laughed.

Harry looked out across the room, like a deer in headlights. His bedside lamp was turned on but it was on the ground and cast strange shadows up the walls. Their room had been ransacked. Their stuff was strewn about it, their clothing and belongings thrown in random directions.

It hurt so much to move. Every blink sent pain banging around his head, every movement made nausea bubble up his throat.

He tried anyway, turning towards the laugh that came from beyond Louis. In the darkest corner of the room.

There, lazing on the sofa, she was.

Harry vomited.

All over the sheet across his naked body. It wasn’t a lot, but it was hot and stunk and the sight of it sliding down the sheets made him vomit again.

The heaving brought tears to his eyes and she laughed again.

“Chloroform will do that to you,” Selene said matter of factly.

Harry spat out the last of the sick that was stuck to his lip and wiped his face against his bound arm.

“What do you want?” He asked. His voice was tacky with sick.

“Don’t play dumb, Harry.”

“How do you know my name?”

Selene smirked and stood up, “How do I know your name, Harry Edward Styles?”

He stayed silent. His skin was cold. But he’d woken up that way. It must have been the chloroform.

Selene tossed a book at him. It hit him in the chest and then rolled off the bed, dragging sick down to the floor with it. 

Harry looked down at it and saw the book he’d lost in Calais.

When he looked back up, Selene had made her way over to Louis, who was lying between them. She lifted his chin and then dropped it, smirking at the way his neck snapped back.

“Don’t touch him,” He warned. It was the first time he’d heard himself sound so authoritative. He tried to push the ache out of his temples.

“You know,” Selene said, moving Louis’ head again so she could brush his hair out of his face. She pulled a tube of lipstick out of her pocket, “I really should have known.”

Selene played with Louis’ face as she talked, swiping the lipstick, a deep red, across his lips like he was a doll, “If there’s one thing I know about Louis, it’s that he doesn’t share beds. And yet here he is. With you. What’s that like Harry?”

Harry didn’t say anything. He yanked on his ties.

“Come on, Harry. Tell me. What’s it like to play a woman? Is it you, or is it him?”

Selene tapped Louis’ cheek when she was done and then looked up at Harry and smiled, “You’re rather interesting, Harry. I’d love to find out what you have that I didn’t.”

“Leave us alone, Selene.”

“Are you naked under there?” She asked, lifting the sheet with two fingers.

Harry tried to kick her from under the sheet. He aimed his knee for her chin, but she moved and he hit the air above Louis.

“Get away,” He warned.

“Oh, Harry,” She taunted, smiling down at him, “Not until you tell me everything I want to know.”

“No,” He said firmly.

“Are you sure? Don’t you love Louis?”

Harry was silent. He wasn’t going to give her anything.

“Don’t you?” She repeated, his time producing her blade. She watched Harry as she brought it to Louis’ throat.

Louis stirred. Towards the blade she was holding.

Selene grinned as he lifted his head warily and bumped his neck into the knife.

“Do you love him?” She asked, more serious now.

Harry’s head thudded.

“Do you?” Harry asked back.

Selene thought for a moment, tipping her head to the side and making a show of it, “I wouldn’t know.”

Louis shifted his head again and blinked his eyes a few times.

“Now tell me, or I cut him. It’s not hard. Is this some sort of love thing or are you just into buggery?” Selene swung the knife around flippantly.

“Why-”

“Tell me.”

Selene pressed the knife into Louis’ neck. A drop of blood lined the edge of the thin blade.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“How cute-” Selene started.

Louis, still half unconscious started to splutter and then, with his head still hanging forwards, vomited down his chest.

Selene jumped back and looked at him, disgusted.

Louis lifted his head and looked around. He looked completely spaced out like he was sleepwalking. He blinked over at Harry and then squeezed his eyes shut like it hurt to look. When he saw the bile down Harry’s front, he looked up to his face, confused. And then looked up at the way Harry’s hands were tied up.

Louis yanked lethargically at his own hands and then turned his head around the room. When he saw Selene standing above him, he coughed and jumped back. 

His back slammed against the headboard.

The headboard. Where the telescope was. And the gun.

Harry had an idea.

“Why are you here, Selene?” He asked.

Louis, still spaced out, could only silently look up at Selene through squinted eyes.

“Well after your little game tonight, I thought it only logical to come here and finally take what’s mine,” Selene sat down on the end of the bed. Away from the sick. She let her fingers wander to the sheet covering them and smirked at Harry as she tugged it down at little.

She laughed when Harry tried to hold the sheet still with his knees, but she did let go.

“You see, Harry. It wasn’t hard to find you when you checked into the same hotel as my father. Funny that, isn’t it?”

Harry didn’t laugh.

“So the telescope, or the compass, what is it?”

“What’s what?” Harry asked, pretending he needed the explanation.

“What do I need? Were you lying before?” She put her head on her hand, the blade poking out from her fist. Like she didn’t care about it nicking her.

“I wasn’t lying,” Harry said. He didn’t feel like a good liar, so he went for the truth. He just picked which details he gave carefully, “The telescope didn’t go anywhere. It’s the compass that’s going to lead to whatever Da Vinci’s hiding.”

“I don’t believe you, honestly.”

“I’m telling you, Selene. It’s the compass you want.”

The compass that wasn’t in this room.

“Why would you give it up so easily then? How do I know you’re not trying to play me again?”

“I wasn’t trying to play you in the first place. I was trying to leave before you brought Hugo into it.”

“Oh, so it’s all my fault?” Selene brushed her knife along the bed sheet thoughtfully. She seemed to enjoy making them squirm.

Harry sighed. He needed to get Selene to let him out of this rope but this conversation wasn’t going as he’d planned.

“Selene, do you still have the compass?”

After a pause she confessed, “No.”

She cut a line in the sheet.

Louis was about to say something finally, but Harry talked over him. He was going to get out of these shackles.

“Good. Okay, that’s good.”

Selene looked up at him with thin eyes.

“The one you had was a fake.”

Selene’s expression didn’t change.

This is where it got hard, where he needed to lie.

“There were, uh, two compasses that look the same. The other’s in…”

He tried to think of somewhere, anywhere. 

“In a museum. In Venice. We uh, checked out Hugo’s one first because it was easier to find.”

“What museum?”

Harry made something up, “It’s called the, um, Museo dei Medici. The compass has their coat of arms on it, so they must have thought it belonged to the Medici family.”

This was it.

“I can draw a map for you. We were going to go tomorrow, but, you know. I’m done. We’re done. We’re going home. You can have it. It’s not worth it anymore.”

Selene thought for a moment. Then her eyes narrowed.

“Why should I believe anything you’re saying? You could just be trying to get untied.”

“I- I-” Harry couldn’t give her a reason.

Louis finally spoke up, “Hold your knife to my throat.”

Selene looked over at him, confused. Then interested.

“He’s telling the truth. You can hold your knife to my throat while he draws the map. For insurance.”

Selene smiled. Grinned with her teeth baring. Like she liked this game, the odds stacked in her favour.

Harry didn’t like those odds.

But there was no going back now, no second option. Selene was already standing and moving to Louis’ lipstick smeared face.

She grabbed him by his hair and pulled his head back so his neck was exposed. Then plucked the sheet up so she didn’t have to look at the sick down Louis’ chest. With her blade, she poked a mark Harry had left just below his ear.

“Who would have guessed you were such a whore,” She smirked, “A boy whore. Figures.”

Louis didn’t say anything. He didn’t look up at her face. Instead he closed his eyes and swallowed.

Selene leant over and cut the thin rope around Harry’s hands.

“The map,” She warned, “No games. Just the map.” 

Harry finally let down his hands. They were white, felt fuzzy. He rubbed along where the rope had cut into his wrists. He should have felt more embarrassed than he did, naked with vomit across his front. Only the sheet to cover him. But he was more concerned with getting Louis away from Selene.

As Harry rubbed his wrists, he tried to think through his headache. Tried to formulate his plan.

The bed was only so wide, and if the gun hadn’t somehow been pushed along to the edge of Louis’ side, he thought he should be able to reach it. He just needed to be able to do it without Selene noticing.

Louis made a sound. The low heave of a stifled burp. Selene grimaced down at him and yanked his head back further.

Harry needed to get that gun now.

He dropped his hands and looked around for a distraction. There was the sick down his front, the sheet that only came up to his navel now, and his clothes on the floor. Louis’ underpants were Harry’s side of the bed.

And obscured from view.

Harry was careful with his movements. He was slow and exact and overly conscious that Selene could snap at any moment.

He grabbed the edge of the sheet and wiped at himself to get rid of the sick. His hands still didn’t feel like his, so he kept his wipes stiff and slow. And obvious enough that Selene wouldn’t get suspicious.

Harry started to roll out of bed and the movement sent a fresh wave of nausea right through him. Like the worst hangover of his life. His head pounded. But he could use this. Could use the chloroform Selene had brought against her.

Harry groaned dramatically. He made the sound of a dying animal. Low and painful. He clutched his stomach and curled over.

“I need…” He paused to burp, and then didn’t finish his sentence at all.

He slumped down to the floor, his feet appearing to collapse under him. In actuality, he was careful to avoid the sick-covered book Selene had thrown at him.

He could hear Selene sigh, bored with the symptoms she’d given him. 

Good.

Harry kept himself hunched over and entirely still. Like it was taking all his concentration not to vomit again.

Which was half true.

Finally, when Harry had determined he’d played the part enough and pushed out a few steadying breaths, he looked up at Selene.

“Can I...” He pleaded, “Can I at least put some pants on?”

Selene let out air through her nose, a tiny laugh, and smirked down at Harry.

“Sure,” She said, “If you must.”

She didn’t look away.

Harry turned to the underpants sitting right there next to him. He grabbed them and then looked back to Selene, raising his eyebrows and trying to ask silently for a little privacy.

She rolled her eyes.

But she looked away nonetheless. Finally.

Harry quickly lay on his back and shuffled the pants on. He still tried to keep himself as hidden from Selene down the side of the bed as possible. Because even though her eyes were trained on the hotel room door, he wanted to give himself enough time to shift about and sound like he was still struggling with his chloroform-induced sickness.

As he pulled the pants on, Harry made little huffing sounds like he was having difficulty with so much movement. When he’d got them up over his waist, he shifted towards the corner of the bed and tried to keep his sounds exactly the same. Like he was still struggling on the floor.

He  _ was _ struggling, of course. Pain was tearing through his head, from temple to temple right behind the eyes, and his stomach was through the mincer, but he was determined to persevere. The actual pain of it all made it so much easier to fake.

Harry made it to the top corner of the bed, keeping his eyes trained on Selene just over the edge of mattress between them.

She wasn’t looking.

Louis was. He had his eyes cracked open a tiny sliver and was staring directly at Harry from the corner of them.

Harry slid his arm in the crack between the mattress and kept his little noises going.

The crevice was up to his bicep when he finally felt it. The cool metal of the gun’s barrel.

He pulled it out.

Then he lay on the floor.

Harry went quiet. He wanted his silence to be known as the moment he’d finally gotten his pants on, but really it was the just the restraint of the scream that wanted to come out of him. The yell at the bottom of his throat, stirring through his bile, because he’d done it. He’d got the gun.

Harry sat up and let out a shaky breath.

Selene looked back at him.

Louis looked up at Selene.

“Come on,” She said, bored and impatient.

“Okay,” Harry breathed. He began to stand, steadying himself with his hands on the metal frame that surrounded the mattress. Where the gun could be hidden.

“Sorry,” Harry continued.

As if it were his lethargy he was apologising for.

“I’m sorry, Selene.”

She looked at him strangely.

“Because you’re going to need to leave.”

She didn’t have time to look down at Louis, at her hands in his hair and against his throat. Harry had whipped the gun out.

In fact, he’d whipped it out so fast he stumbled a little. His dizziness suddenly of no help. 

Selene smiled. Of course she would. Then she finally looked down at Louis. And the blade pressed right up under his chin.

Harry hadn’t considered that. He hadn’t considered that Selene might still take him out too. He could shoot her but she could still cut his throat as she fell back.

His headache pulsed.

“Leave, Selene,” He tried, training his gun at her face. His hands started to tremble.

“Oh ho-ho,” Selene scoffed. She kept her knife to Louis’ throat.

It was all catching up to Harry now. He lurched.

“You think you’re going to shoot me, do you?” She taunted.

“Get out,” Was all Harry said. He tried so hard to keep his voice steady.

“But I don’t want to.”

“Get out,” Harry’s voice cracked.

Selene was quiet for a moment. She looked between Harry and Louis thoughtfully.

“Shoot me, then. See what happens.”

A stabbing pain went through Harry’s chest. He didn’t have any words. He didn’t know what to do.

Louis looked over at him. And then he closed his eyes and let out a slow, composed breath.

“Get away from him,” Harry cried. He actually cried. His voice broke and his eyes went damp. Blurry.

Selene stared at him. And didn’t move.

Harry’s hand shook. He was completely at a loss. Backed into a corner where he had to choose between Selene cutting Louis’ throat in her own time, and her doing at as she fell back from a gunshot.

Either way it would be Harry’s fault.

A tear fell from his eye.

He could see the deathly glimmer in Selene’s eyes. The fearlessness. The dare. He could see that this was all a game to her, that a life didn’t matter. Not even hers.

“Come on, Harry,” She taunted, “Shoot me!”

Harry tried to take a breath. A deep, gulping breath.

“Shoot me like your life depends on it!” She laughed.

Harry pulled back the gun’s hammer. But his hands were shaking visibly now. Violently. Selene was smirking at them.

He tried to steady himself. He held the revolver with both hands and looked down the barrel. 

All he could see through his tears was red.

At the end of gun was Selene’s chest, red silk swept across it. The place where Raphael had been shot.

Suddenly Raphael’s clavicle was splintering open again. He could see it with perfect vision. Clear as a July sky. He could see the splattering of blood spread across Selene’s chest as it had done his. Like a dream come to life.

A nightmare.

Harry couldn’t keep himself up straight. Everything was tumbling down around him. He didn’t feel like he had a grip on the world, much less the gun in his hands.

He wanted to shoot. He wanted to pull the trigger. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it without seeing Raphael at the end of the barrel. He couldn’t shoot him.

Selene laughed.

Harry wiped grievously at his tears, one hand still trying to keep his gun pointed forwards, and tried to look at her. Tried to see her.

See only her.

Barely, through the faint lines of Raphael’s shadow, he could see that there wasn’t blood seeping from her chest. That she was only wearing a red dress.

And she was stepping back from Louis.

Her hand was leaving his hair, her knife leaving his throat.

She look two steps back with a smile, “I didn’t think so.”

And then she left.

 

Harry ran to Louis.

He put the gun on his bedside table and then threw himself over the bed to him.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry,” He blubbered, tears streaming full force as he tore at Louis’ restraints, “I’m so so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Harry,” Louis said up to him. His voice was weak. And tears were in his eyes too. Harry didn’t know how long they’d been there.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Harry repeated, his voice slowly waning to a whisper.

“It’s not your fault,” Louis said, though he was clearly shaken. His words didn’t feel convincing.

Harry got Louis’ hands free and then he dropped himself forwards to slam their bodies together, hug him.

Louis stopped him.

He caught him with his hands. They were shaking. Harry wanted to kiss them away like he’d done at the beach, but these were shakes of terror, not nerves, and Louis was holding him so tightly he couldn’t move.

Louis smiled. A sad, wretched smile. His cheeks were red and the whites of his eyes too. Tears still made lines down his cheeks until they caught the nick on his neck and turned bloody as they made their way to his collar.

“Let’s clean ourselves up first, love,” He managed.

Harry looked down at the vomit that had slid down Louis’ chest and down the side of his ribs.

He gave Louis the same pained smile back and nodded, “Yeah, okay.”

They were quiet as Harry kissed Louis’ wrists and then put them to his sides so he could wipe his chest for him. There was nothing yet to say. They were both still trying to come to terms with what had just happened, how Selene had gotten away from the party and made her way into their room.

Thoughts flurried into Harry’s head as they finally shifted and headed for the bathroom, Louis grabbing some underwear to wear. Thoughts of Selene covering their mouths with rags as they slept, of her rummaging around their room, of what she was thinking when she covered Louis in lipstick.

But the thoughts were strange and far away. Like they were lacquered with oil and he couldn’t quite grasp them. His body felt odd too. Warm and cold at the same time, and sort of like he was floating. Like when he was a child and he would stand in a doorway pressing his arms into the frame until he would move away and they would float up. 

When he wiped a wet cloth across himself it felt like someone else’s hands. He couldn’t decipher which touches were his and which were Louis’ helping him get it all. It all felt the same. 

He could see what was going on around him. How his hands grabbed another cloth and wiped away the lipstick and the tears from Louis’ face. How Louis winced and grabbed at his elbows as he so carefully cleaned up his cut.

He could see all these things, could tell that they were real occuring happenings. But he felt like a backseat driver in his own body, watching as his arms moved and his mind slipped away.

The mix of shock and the lingering remains of chloroform on his mind made it easy to sleep. When they avoided the bed and slept on the sofa instead, Harry couldn’t even think about covering them with a sheet, much less whether Selene was coming back.

Harry tucked his arms around Louis and pulled him in until he had engulfed him entirely and Louis was breathing against his neck. 

He fell into a grey, hollow sleep. One that fell in and out of strange loose consciousness.


	26. The Hunt.

Sunday 

July 7th, 1935.

Cannes, France.

  
  


Selene smacked her fist against the door. She beat it four times, each one as hard and purposeful as the last.

Her fist was about to hit a fifth time when finally, her father opened the door.

His back was lit only by the soft tinge of a single bedside lamp behind him. He was still dressed but his eyes drooped, looked just as tired as she’d hoped. He smelt a touch like bourbon, must have just got back.

“Selene?” He asked, looking her up and down with a tired squint, “What is it?”

Selene didn’t answer. She went to push the door to her father’s hotel room open and walk in past him, make herself at home while she interrogated him for the truth. To find out what he knew about the telescope. If there was anything he wasn’t telling her. If he knew anything about this compass that had caused so much trouble.

But he caught her. 

She was still in her dress, red and slinky, so she should have been able to slip by, but he caught her by the arm where she’d taken off her long gloves already, thrown them off so she could fiddle with the lock on Louis’ room door. It was easier with her fingers free.

Selene tried to pull her arm away, shove her weight towards the low-lit room in front of her, but her father was stronger than he looked. She hadn’t felt his strength like this before. At least, not since she’d found out about his new wife.

“What is it?” He repeated, keeping his voice relaxed, completely pleasant. So that any passerbyers wouldn’t notice the marks he was making in her skin, “Why have you come here at this hour, my love?”

He smiled.

Selene thought of her options, thought of whether she should ask him here or force her way into her room where they’d have some semblance of privacy. Her father obviously didn’t want her in his room, and she wasn’t sure if that was because he was still angry at her needing him to get her out of Hugo’s mansion, dumping her on the front door step to make her own way back to the hotel, or if it was because his lovely, precious wife would be asleep in there.

“You want me to tell you here?” Selene asked. Straight up. Right to the point. She motioned with her eyebrows to the hallway they were standing in,  _ you want anyone to see us? _

Her father didn’t say anything, but he didn’t let go of her arm.

She took that as a yes.

“That compass,” The one he’d had to pay hard cash for in return for Selene’s freedom, the one Harry had told her stories about, “What do you know about it?”

Her father squinted at her again, this time annoyed and suspicious, “The one you tried to steal tonight?”

Selene yanked her arm from the father’s grip, stood back into the hallway. If he wasn’t going to let her into his room, she wasn’t going to let him have any privacy.

“I didn’t steal it,” She said, her voice too loud for the late hour. She didn’t care.

Her father gave her an unimpressed look. He was about to scold her. Like a child.

“Selene,” He said, voice almost sounding resigned, “I paid a lot of money to get you out of that. There’s really no point trying to pretend nothing happened. Please, love.”

“I. Didn’t. Steal. It,” She spat out each word, harsh and exact and cutting.

Her father just looked at her and sighed, “Selene…”

He didn’t believe her. He hadn’t believed her when they’d stood outside Hugo’s front door and she’d tried to explain that Harry had given it to her after _ she’d _ caught  _ him _ stealing it. 

She hadn’t explained to her father that when she’d watched Harry and Louis walk into the ballroom from her spot between two ugly drunken couples on the mezzanine floor, she’d seen that Jean-Luc was watching them just as dutifully and she’d never be able to use her knife without him knowing. So she’d stalked Harry out of the room to try her luck on him when he’d left, only to find he was stealing and plans had to change.

So Selene blinked up at her father, and tried to strangle the thoughts of yelling out all the ways she was the one who had actually been making progress at the party. She was the one that was actually doing something about her missing telescope. She wasn’t the one just standing around trying to make nice with Harry in the ballroom.

No, she’d seen the way her father had buttered up to Harry, had tried to go for the nice route. She’d seen her father’s fake smile and ho-hum pleasantries. She didn’t have time for that.

And she didn’t have time for her father’s condescending words right now, staring down at her from his perch in the doorway.

No.

Lightning fast she bounced up to him and shoved him against the door frame, drew her knife to his throat. He hadn’t seen it gripped in her fist yet. He hadn’t seen it when he’d foolishly grabbed her arm, tried to keep her from his room.

Selene took delight in the millisecond of fear that flashed through his eyes before he collected himself.

“I didn’t steal it, okay?” Selene spat. Actually spat. Her father blinked at the flecks she sent into his face.

But then he rested his head back against the wood of the door frame and closed his eyes, slightly shook his head.

“Selene,” He said, and she was getting really, really, sick of her name, “You know it wouldn’t be a smart idea to do that.”

“Wouldn’t it?” She couldn’t help but smile as the words spilled out.

Her father took a breath and then opened his eyes and looked right at her. Into her. His eyes bore into hers.

“I’m only going to say this because you’re my daughter,” He said, “But you ought to be reminded that killing me would be very costly to you.”

“And why is that?”

Her father was quiet a moment, never taking his eyes off of her. When he talked, his voice was calm, “Because, love, I took you off my will after what you did to Louis’ mother-” She pressed her knife into the skin of his neck, fresh blood pricked and mixed with the darkened stain Louis had left along its edge- “But, Selene, I was going to put you back on it after all this. I was going to tell you tomorrow. I wanted you to prove that you could handle this sort of situation without killing anyone else.”

She didn’t believe him. She didn’t believe a word he was saying. He hadn’t mentioned the kid, the one in Calais, the one she’d already shot dead. She’d already blown her chances by that standard, but no inheritance meant no money, no means to keep living as she did. She hadn’t gotten any more work since Louis had left her, she’d been given party invitations and nothing else. No one had really wanted to work with her, they’d just wanted to get to Louis. He’d never even needed her in the first place, he could walk into any room, any party, and have everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. No inheritance meant the end of her.

Selene’s breaths came out in short, pressured flares. She didn’t believe him but she couldn’t take the chance.

She didn’t say anything.

Her father filled the gap. He continued talking in his collected, reassuring tone, “We’re so alike, Selene. I wouldn’t exchange you for the world, I hope you know that. I just wish you could control yourself a bit more. Please, prove yourself.”

She didn’t believe him. She blinked up at him, the knife still against his throat.

She didn’t know what to do, but she didn’t want to concede. She didn’t want to admit that she needed to listen to her father.

She changed the topic.

“Do you know anything about the compass from tonight?”

Her father sighed and closed his eyes again. He was quiet for a long, aching, moment before he answered, “No. I don’t.”

He gave a half smile and waited for Selene to do with that what she will.

She pulled the knife back from his throat a centimetre. Enough to left him breath freely. Twice in one night she’d stepped back from that edge, put up her white flag. With her father it had been the ties he’d put around her wrists, the promise of inheritance dangling above her head. With Harry and Louis it had been… Something else. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. There was something about Harry. It wasn’t that she wasn’t capable of killing his, whatever you call that between him and Louis, in front of him. She could do that, easy. But there was something. Something strange that had manifested itself in her mind, something she couldn’t recognise. A fascination. A wanting to know more, figure out why he was the way he was. He was so childish, naive. Dull. And he felt so much, he’d cried twice in front of her. He hadn’t even tried to hide it, it was like he was okay with looking weak. It didn’t frighten him to cry like every other man she’d met. Every person for that matter. Even the kid she’d struck when he couldn’t get Harry’s suitcase off him.

Harry was so disgustingly weak and yet that fascinated her. She wanted to see more of it. Come back for more later. See how far she could push him, control him.

Selene’s father interrupted her thought. He slowly pressed his fingers to Selene’s wrist, pushing the knife further from his throat.

“Love, can you explain to me the importance of this compass?” He asked, head tilting so he actually looked concerned.

“It’s…” Selene came back to her surroundings, “Harry said it was the next clue after the telescope, that the one at Hugo’s was a fake and we should find the real one in Venice. That one will lead to Da Vinci’s works.”

She didn’t mention how she’d come to learn that information from Harry, how she’d made a trip to Louis’ room after seeing Margot waltz through the lobby and discovered they’d somehow all checked into the same hotel as her and her father. Her father didn’t ask either.

“And do you believe him?” He asked.

“I don’t think he’s capable of lying to me.”

Her father looked at her thoughtfully and then said, “Then I think you ought to put that away completely and we’ll follow them together. We’ll find out about this compass business that way.”

He looked at the knife that Selene was still brandishing, held back only by his first two fingers.

Selene thought it over. She considered what it meant to let her father lead. To actually follow him like she meant it, even though she didn’t trust a word he said. She was sick of her choices being dictated by him again. But there wasn’t much choice.

She lowered her knife further and then asked, “And if we do that, I  _ will _ get my inheritance back?”

“Yes, but only if you prove yourself and follow my every word. And we follow them  _ quietly _ , and until they actually find Da Vinci’s belongings. We’ll let them do all the work.”

“And her? She’s not going to come, is she?” Selene asked, motioning through the crack in the door.

Her father didn’t say anything. Instead, he winked and finally let Selene into his room. 

Selene’s father closed the door behind him and walked down the hall, down the stairs, and then into the bar. Where he would have an alibi.

Where both of them could conveniently forget that Selene was to prove her self control.


	27. The Second Letter.

Sunday 

July 7th, 1935.

Cannes, France.

  
  


When Harry finally woke, it was to a pounding on their room door.

He heard the beating of the door before he could see anything, his mind still foggy and weighed down. In fact, he only registered the sound when it wouldn’t let up. It kept beating and beating until it matched the throbbing in his head and sunlight finally crept through his eyelids.

Harry slowly blinked his eyes open, his eyelashes tugging as he unstuck them from each other. The room seemed too bright.

Slowly the pain seeped down his arms. His right arm hurt more, almost felt numb, and when he tried to shift it, he discovered that it hurt so much because Louis was sleeping on top of it. His left arm was significantly better, only the wrist hurt from the night before. 

From the rope that had been tied around it.

Harry sat up.

Louis shifted and groaned, started rubbing his eyes.

The pounding on the door continued.

Harry stumbled over Louis’ body, who was just coming to and squeezing his eyes until they could open, and over towards the door. There was a chair in front of it, its back tucked under the door handle. Louis must have put it there last night, when Harry’s shock had taken over.

The knocking kept coming in short fast beats as Harry maneuvered the chair away from the handle.

“Alright, I’m coming,” Harry groggily called out, unsure if the people on the other side of the door could even hear him over their knocking.

Finally, Harry got the chair out from the handle. It had been jammed tight, held fast by the thick carpet underneath. He opened the door.

It was Margot.

Behind her was Pierre and some unknown man, short, pale and with a hooked nose. In his hand was a key.

They were all bug eyed.

Margot had her hand raised in a fist, ready to rap the door again. It remained frozen mid air as she looked up at Harry’s sleepy, dishevelled face. 

“Harry?” She started, “What took you so lo-”

She looked past Harry’s shoulder into their room. Harry followed her eyes and saw in the bright sunlight streaming in through their french doors at the absolute tip it had become, the unkempt bed, the duvet on the floor, the furniture and clothes thrown everywhere. Louis was on the sofa still, sitting up and squinting over at the lot of them. Although he was merely shirtless, over the back of the sofa it looked like he didn’t have anything on.

“Oh,” Margot said, quickly looking away, “Sorry. We thought something had happened, you didn’t come down for check out.”

“What time is it?” Harry asked, still too sleepy to put together the picture Margot was painting of their room. The reasons she was putting to the messy state of it.

Margot looked back to Harry, confused, “Uh, midday.”

“Shit, sorry, I-” Harry started, trying to put his thoughts in order, “We had some trouble, uh, I- No- It’s a long story.”

“What do you mean? Trouble?”

Margot pushed the door open wider as though she could deduce what Harry was talking about.

She saw the gun. It was glinting in the sun on Harry’s side of the bed.

“What happened?” She asked, voice horrified, as she pushed her way into the room. Her face was stricken with lines, fear and disgust and worry. She walked over the mess, dumbfounded as to what to say. Her tight-knit brow let on all the thoughts racing through her head as she quietly, absentmindedly picked up the lamp that Selene had thrown to the floor and put it back on Harry’s bedside table. It knocked the gun but Margot didn’t seem to notice. She was looking at the marks on Louis’ wrists.

The man standing with Pierre walked into the room then, his face just as disgusted. The smell of sick started to seep back into Harry’s nostrils and he had no idea how to explain what had happened. Quickly, the man started ranting at Margot in French, saying that the state of the room was unacceptable, they’d need to pay so much to cover it, and god knows what else. Harry was still coming out of his sluggish state, so he only pieced together his fiery complaints in mangled parts.

Margot took a moment to come out of her spell. He eyes slid over to the man and gained a little more focus, and then she just raised her hand and gestured for him to stop. She didn’t say a word until he did. When finally he slowed his sentences and lowered the hand he’d been swinging around the room enough, Margot simply looked at him and said in French with a level, authoritative voice, “It will be sorted.”

The man went to add more, his hand raising again and his chest expanding to fit more words, but Margot just raised her hand again and looked at him expectantly.

He dropped his hands, exasperated. 

Margot smiled, like a parent, and then added, “Thank you. Now, I would like to talk to them for a moment and then I will come downstairs and pay whatever it is I need to pay.”

The man was still, his nostrils flared, but then he gave in and nodded. He stayed where he was, watching on expectantly like he didn’t want any person in that room out of his sight. His eyes started to creep over to where Louis was sitting, shirtless with his mouth hung half open, on the sofa and then back to Harry. And then back to Louis, and then finally the bed with the ropes hanging from it.

“Privately,” Margot added, before he could make comments on that.

He left the room.

Pierre followed him and closed the door behind them.

Margot turned back to Harry and Louis. She was quiet a moment, wordless in her thoughts, her face contemplative.

She bit her bottom lip and sighed, then walked over to the sofas and sat down silently.

Harry followed suit and sat next to Louis.

Louis, who had been silent this whole time, said nothing. Whether that was because he was still coming out of their strange, heavy sleep or if Louis’ shock had finally settled into his bones, Harry wasn’t sure. Louis looked at Harry as he sat down and then reached out a hand for him. Harry took it, and then Louis shifted right over and lay up against his side, his head against Harry’s waist and Harry’s arm over his back. Louis bent his arm back up so they didn’t let go of each other’s hands.

Harry looked back up from Louis’ shifting, tired body to Margot. She was looking out the doors, over the balcony and towards the sea outside. She didn’t turn her head when she spoke softly, “I suppose this is another thing to do with Selene?”

Harry nodded. She must have seen it in the corner of her eye because she turned to the two of them on their seat with a very serious look in her eye.

“Is it worth it?” She asked.

Harry was quiet.

Margot continued, “Is this whole ordeal really worth all this pain? I can give you a good life without all this… this tomfoolery.”

There was quiet, heavy and resigned, between the three of them. The Louis spoke, his voice crackling from their long sleep, “I wanted to earn it myself.”

“But… still? Is it really still worth it?”

“I… I think so. We’re so close.”

“Louis,” Margot sighed, “You can’t do this to Harry. You’re going to scare the poor lad off. You have a good thing, don’t ruin it.”

Louis went quiet, his body heavy. Like he’d let go of all his breath and all his hope. The silence clung to the curtains, seeped into the carpet, wrapped itself in the clothes across the floor. The room was bright, the sun streaming in looked so airy, and yet the weight Harry felt in his chest was drowning. He felt the leaden weight of Louis on his side, the way his hair was damp from sleep, from the fear Louis must have felt the night before, and it made Harry angry.

It made him angry that everyone thought Louis was pulling him into all this unwillingly, that Margot thought they couldn’t - shouldn’t - handle it anymore. And that maybe Louis was resigning himself to the idea that they should quit.

Harry didn’t want to give up.

Not after Louis’ mother. Not after Raphael. Not after they’d survived the night before. Louis had literally just said how they were so close. They’d made it through so much already.

Harry didn’t want anyone to think he wasn’t capable anymore. He was. He’d gotten Selene caught at Hugo’s mansion, had gotten her out of their room. He’d been the one to save Louis now, not the other way around anymore. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry stated, squeezing Louis’ hand, “If this is Louis’ ticket to getting out of all this, I’m not going anywhere.”

It wasn’t even about the discovery of more Da Vinci works anymore. Harry just wanted Louis to have this one thing, this one thing that would get them out of this blood soaked world. So he wasn’t going to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Margot had her money, but she didn’t have the means to keep Selene away. He could give her the compass, the telescope, but she’d already taken the knowledge that Louis and him were together. That would always be dangerous.

“But Harry-” Margot started.

Harry cut her off, his voice growing, “No.”

He was so tired, so sick to death of the red that had followed him, had rendered him completely unable to shoot that gun. He’d grown so tired of it that it didn’t even scare him anymore. He didn’t care what he had to see now, didn’t care what it took to not have to witness Louis so lifeless. The red of blood shed was nothing compared to the dulling grey in Louis’ eyes.

“If Louis wants to keep going, so do I.”

“And Selene? What are you going to do about her?”

Harry thought about that. What  _ was _ he going to do about Selene? She’d disappeared back into the night and they didn’t know where to. She could be anywhere now. She could be hiding just outside their room, waiting for them to leave. Or in the lobby. Or out on the street, waiting with more kids she’d roped in to their own demise.

Louis finally spoke, his voice hoarse but ignoring the question, “I want to keep going.”

He squeezed Harry’s hand and then shifted to look up at him. His face looked hollow, like he was running on a half-life.

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, suddenly taking Margot’s tone of care, of reservation. It was hard not to see how their moments with Selene were stacking up, were wearing them thin. Louis looked so grey. Maybe to keep going was to sign their own death certificate.

But Louis nodded. Slowly and deliberately. He closed his eyes for a second as he did, and when they opened he looked a little more awake. A little more sure. He gave a small smile, tried to look assured, “Yeah. There’s no better time to not give up, we’re so close.”

Because of course Louis would say that in their darkest hour, of course he would take the side that Harry had just been on before he’d seen the dullness in Louis’ eyes. Of course Louis was the person that Harry had felt himself becoming more like in the seconds before he rethought things, considered the worst.

But maybe Harry was just becoming more like himself. 

Maybe he was letting out more of his bravery before the old Harry caught it, tried to tuck it back away.

Maybe Harry should keep going, not look for the safe route out and stop this madness before it was too late. Maybe he should take the chance that he could get out of a bad situation again, that getting rid of Selene wasn’t just a fluke.

He’d done it once, twice already. Maybe he could do it again.

Harry looked down at Louis and returned his small smile, exchanged silent words of agreement. 

Louis held Harry’s eyes and the blue came back to them. They were searching for the green in Harry’s.

The life crept back into Louis’ face, and then it crept up Harry’s spine.

_ Yeah _ , Harry thought,  _ we’re going to do this _ .

When Louis found those words written across Harry’s face, he nodded, settled and reassured. Then he kissed the words forming on Harry’s lips and that was that, they were decided.

Margot shook her head and looked out the window again with a unimpressed roll of her eyes, “I suppose you’d better pack your things then, and bloody hell, take the fire exit out the back. So you’re not seen.”

 

As they packed up their stuff, taking only what fitted in their satchels, Margot took their suits and retrieved the compass from the car.

Harry was so, so thankful he’d left it in there.

She handed it to him and gave him a stern look, completely disapproving, but didn’t say anything. Like she must have learned somewhere along the way that if Louis said he was going to do something, he was going to do it.

They considered trying to figure out the compass then and there, Harry couldn’t help but start to fiddle with the thing and forget about collecting his socks from the floor.

Louis just threw the socks at him and told him to get a move on, they’d already caused the hotel enough catastrophe. 

So they left. Out the back fire escape, through the alley behind the hotel and out to the bright afternoon sunlight that glimmered along the beach before them.

They kept to the shade of the buildings they walked past, not just because it offered them a lower profile, but also because the sun was scorching hot everywhere else. Harry could still feel the warm air swirl around him, blowing up his shirt every time the tide came into shore and making him feel lethargic, but at least in the shade he didn’t have to add in the direct heat of the sun above to burn the back of his neck.

Still, he needed something cold to drink.

And some breakfast, or lunch, of whatever the hour called for.

Louis smiled when Harry told him this, then he winked and said that he was already taking them to a cafe so he could get something there.

To Harry’s relief, the place wasn’t far.

He didn’t even realise he was there until Louis pointed up a skinny, worn set of green stairs that clambered up into the dark heat of some building between a small grocer and a cheese shop. There wasn’t a sign above the door, nothing to tell them they’d made it to their destination except for the smell of coffee that wafted down the stairs.

It was nice. The smell cut through the heat of the air and spiced it, made Harry feel a touch more awake.

He took two stairs at a time. Then tripped halfway up because the edges of each step had worn away to expose slippery wood beneath the paint and Harry was too busy following his nose to look where he was putting each foot.

The passage was too skinny to need a handrail so Harry flung his arms out to each wall and caught himself halfway to needing a new set of teeth.

Louis chuckled behind him and at least Harry could feel glad that his bright mood had come back. That Louis had slowly come back to life as they’d moved about their room, trying to find their clothes again, trying to remember who owned what, and what Louis owned but Harry was borrowing. Louis had grown back into his smiling, determined self - entirely focused on deciphering the compass.

Still, Harry wanted to check that he was actually in a good mood and not just putting it on for Harry’s sake, wasn’t just hiding his resigned mood from earlier because Harry had suggested they keep going.

So he caught his breath on the stairs, holding himself just above the one he was going to hit with his face, and stood back up. Spun around.

Louis was smiling up at him, a protective arm extended almost to Harry’s thigh. As though he could have helped Harry not smash his face from behind him. The sun was glowing behind him, the pavement outside reflecting warm light up Louis’ back. Through the tips of his hair.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, wanting reassurance.

Louis looked at him, half amused half confused, “I don’t think it’s me we should be worrying about.”

“I know,” Harry smiled, “But last night, this morning, everything. Are you actually okay with this? If we keep going? I’m just checking.”

“Yes Harry,” Louis took a step up and started pushing Harry to turn around, keep walking up the stairs, “I am okay. Last night was scary, yeah, but I’m okay now. I’m good.”

“You’re good?” Harry asked, not moving.

Louis put his hand into the front seam of Harry’s shirt, where the buttons ran up, and then pulled Harry down towards him. He smiled, wide and open and honest, “Yes, I’m perfect. Are you?”

Harry nodded and bit at his smile. 

“Good,” Louis said, his face creeping closer to Harry’s.

“Good,” Harry repeated, completely forgetting what it was they were talking about.

Louis stood up to the one step that separated them and pulled Harry by the chest right into him. He grinned as he stood on his tiptoes so their faces were almost touching. Then he leaned all the way up and kissed Harry on the lips.

Harry felt like he could have fallen again. He couldn’t decide between keeping his hands on both walls to keep himself upright, and gripping Louis’ neck.

He reached his hands around to Louis.

They kissed and Harry tumbled back against the wall, his back hit it with some force. The two of them almost fell but Louis stood up to the same step as Harry and struck out a arm to the wall to keep them standing. He smiled against Harry’s mouth and then parted his lips to kiss him deeper.

All Harry could taste and smell and feel was the earthiness of Louis’ scent. It wrapped around him and cuddled him and was only stroked by the faintest touch of coffee.

He let his hands move up to Louis’ hair, and then down to his hips, and he pulled Louis up against him. Bit his lip. Licked at his tongue.

It was obscene, and wanting, and all the while the most romantic thing Harry had ever done.

Louis pushed his elbow against the wall so he could put his fingers through Harry’s hair, pull at the strands at the base of his head. 

Harry bent his neck back to move with Louis’ little tugs, make it feel so good, and Louis pulled his own head back. Just a touch. Enough to pull on Harry’s bottom lip and look up at him through his eyelashes. 

Harry pulled Louis’ hips back into him, rough and playful, and Louis only smiled. Pulled away.

He winked at Harry, reached down to squeeze his bum, and then stepped back altogether.

“Don’t get too carried away there, love,” He teased.

Harry rolled his eyes and leant the back of his head against the wall, shook his head in equal parts impish delight and disappointment. 

Still, Harry readjusted his trousers and looked at Louis like he was definitely going to pay for making him so indecent in public.

Louis smirked at him. Then he readjusted his own trousers and looked down the stairs.

There was no one there. They were fine.

So Harry lifted Louis’ chin and quickly, softly, bit his lip.

“I’ll do what I want,” Harry whispered.

Louis playfully shoved Harry back into the wall and took to the step above him. He looked back and winked at Harry, “Good luck hiding that, then.”

Louis skipped up the stairs and through the door on the left, out of sight. Harry was left wondering how he was supposed to get up there without making a scene with his trousers, and how Louis had somehow done just that.

He breathed and counted to ten, tried to picture himself in cold water.

The hot air didn’t help but eventually, eventually, Harry could contain himself and he climbed up the stairs.

 

The cafe, still unnamed, was distinctly bohemian. So forthright in its frankness, its freedom. It was tiny and only consisted of two small tables inside, surrounded by books on every wall, hanging plants in every corner and phonograph records jammed anywhere they could fit. But on the spaces of wall that were left over, peeling posters had been tacked. They showed men and women and everyone in between. Some were clothed, some were almost completely nude. Some of the women wore sheer gowns, and some wore wet ones. Some of the pictures had people by themselves, looking wistful and posed, but of the ones where they were together, they were embracing, kissing. All of them looking completely at ease. Blissful. Woman and woman. Man and man. People who Harry couldn’t decipher. He could have sworn he saw one of two men with their hands tied, their mouths gagged and looking completely content. He’d never seen anything like it. It was so profane, so explicit. So beautiful. He didn’t know where to look so he turned his eyes to a phonograph sat in the furthest corner, almost hidden from view from the ferns that hung above it. It was playing a kind of music that Harry hadn’t heard before.

Against the back wall was the counter and the brassy coffee machine that sat above it, the whole area smothered in cakes and chocolates.

A short woman with even shorter hair stood behind it, glancing up to smile at Harry as she made steam squeal from the coffee machine. Her face was sharp, bird like, and without makeup. And she wore a white button up shirt, like a man. He tried to smile at her and avoid ogling at the posters behind her head.

“Salut,” She smiled. In fact, she was almost smirking, looking up at Harry like that, her head tilted to the side.

“Uh,” Harry started, clearing his throat.

The woman just pointed and said, “Il est dehors.”

_ He’s outside _ .

Harry followed her hand and there he was, there was Louis, sitting out on the balcony with a cigarette in hand and the sun in his eyes.

Harry clambered past the tables, past all the pictures on the walls, and touched Louis’ shoulder as he made it outside.

Louis smiled up at him, patted him on the hip, and motioned to the chair opposite him, closest to the balcony edge. 

Harry took it. 

The table was under an umbrella, wide and blue. Harry’s side of the table was further in the shade but still the sun caught a square of his back. Made it swelter.

He tried to ignore it, favouring the lighter that Louis had left on the table. He flicked it open and shut as he looked up at Louis. He had to squint because Louis was wearing a white polo on his sunny side of the table and it was  _ bright _ .

“So,” He started, soaking up the way Louis’ cheeks hollowed every time he took a drag.

“Mm?” Louis hummed, face open and serene. He lifted his leg to place it on the edge of Harry’s seat, between his thighs.

He tapped the inside of Harry’s thigh with his shoe, and smiled openly as Harry tried to hide his.

“So?” Louis repeated. Harry had forgotten what he was going to say.

“Um,” He thought aloud, bringing his hand down to rub circles into Louis’ ankle, “This is quite the little place.”

Louis hummed again, blew out his smoke and pushed his ankle further into Harry’s palm, “It’s safe here, so, you know.”

_ Safe _ . Safe to rest his foot against Harry. Safe to kiss him in the stairwell.

“Well don’t you just know all the places, huh,” Harry commented, smiling towards the open door back into the cafe, “Especially the ones covered in… art.”

Louis smirked and toed Harry’s thigh, “That’s a good word for it, innit. Wait till you read the books.”

The woman came out then, plates teetering on her wrists. She had two drinks and three plates of food, somehow. Expertly she handed Louis his glass and then placed Harry’s down on the table. The food went between them.

They said their  _ merci’s _ and then Harry inspected everything Louis had ordered. 

To drink, they had matching iced coffees. Exactly what Harry needed. And to eat, Louis had gotten baguette sandwiches and quiche and, he’d remembered Harry’s favourite, creme brulee.

Harry tried to save his iced coffee as best he could, only sip at it between bites so he’d have enough to keep him cool after they’d eaten. But it was gone before he realised, tipped back in accidental gulps until ice clinked against glass.

Louis ordered him another one.

Harry didn’t know what he did to deserve him.

When they were done eating, done with Harry feeding both himself and Louis caramel dollops of creme brulee from his spoon, Louis kissed him long and slow. Harry savoured the taste and feel of caramel Louis kisses in the bright sunlight, soundtracked by faint music and actual people out and about on the street. It felt like they were a normal couple. When Louis pulled away, he finally asked about the compass.

“Oh,” Harry said, he’d pushed it completely from mind, caught up in living out daydreams with Louis, “The compass.”

“The compass,” Louis repeated with a grin. They had a habit of repeating exactly what the other had said.

Harry took a sip of his second iced coffee and then pulled out his satchel.

He pulled out the telescope first, placing it on the table between them and then pulled out the compass.

Louis moved his chair around the table so he was scooted right up against Harry’s side.

Harry opened the compass then put it down on the wooden table with a heavy clunk.

They stared at it.

It looked exactly like the one Liam had made, save maybe for the nicks along the edges. This compass carried its age, had gathered dust in its crevices and marks across its casing. The half globe inside, though, was still perfect and round and shiny. There was only one tiny chip in the top right corner.

Harry picked it up and turned it in his hands, searching for anything that looked amiss.

There were no buttons, no switches, no codes to break. It simply looked like a compass, ivory and brass and glass the only things on show.

Harry bit his lip. Wracked his brain for any ideas, for any inklings as to what Da Vinci was playing at here.

He couldn’t come up with anything. Fundamentally, this compass did match the telescope. Here, right next to each other, they looked like sisters. Made of the same material, marked by the same years. But this piece was completely void of any sort of mechanisms, save the needle swimming behind glass. It was barren of clues, had no pictures or letters or anything.

He looked at the Medici crest on the lid. Begged it to tell him something. 

Harry knew that Da Vinci had worked for the Medici family, the most powerful family in Italy in his time, but that didn’t give him enough. The only decorations on the inside were the six tiny laurels that surrounded the half globe. Harry knew they symbolized victory, but he couldn’t see what that could be a reference to.

It felt like the only thing to do would be to smash it open.

Harry placed the compass back down on the table and looked to the telescope for clues. He looked at the pictures on each side, the man, the snake, the compass, the priest. They’d already figured those ones out. The only ones that remained unsolved were the skull and the lion.

“What are you thinking?” Louis asked, hovering over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry scrunched his nose and sat back, “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can work this one out. There’s no codes or anything on the compass - the only thing that’s off about it is that South is marked out. But I think it must have something to do with the lion and the skull on the telescope. We haven’t used those clues yet…”

Louis picked up the compass and looked at it himself. He turned it around and around between his fingers as Harry continued to think.

Harry picked up the telescope to look closer at the lion.

A lion was a symbol for the Medici family, there was some sort of connection there. Some connection that Harry hadn’t yet made. Perhaps the answer would be inside the compass.

And the skull… Well, that didn’t correlate to anything in any sort of specificity. One could argue that it represented Da Vinci’s obsession with anatomy, his secret dissections, but Harry couldn’t be sure. It could have simply meant death.

Maybe they were headed for a trap.

He didn’t know.

All he did know was that there was some connection between Da Vinci and the Medici family. There was something trying to be said there, if only he could understand what it was.

Louis gasped.

Harry looked over at him.

He was holding the compass in his left hand, the wire he used to pick locks in his right. 

Louis rested the compass on the table and it sat in three loose pieces. The casing, the half globe, and the sheet of thin metal that had been the compass front, kept the half globe in place - where the ‘S’ had been inscribed.

Harry looked back up to Louis, who was staring open mouthed at the broken thing in front of him.

“I-” He started, looking up at Harry, “I- I found this little hole on the side and I thought it might be something so I put my pick in it and it just… It just broke.”

“It’s okay,” Harry replied softly, then took note of how the parts fell away so perfectly, “I don’t know that it did.”

Harry looked down at the barely-together compass. Carefully, he poked at it with his finger.

The brass front shifted loosely under Harry’s touch. Like it wanted to be moved.

He caught the edge of it and lifted it up, then the half orb.

They both gasped.

Inside was a tiny folded piece of paper and a ring. A silver ring.

Louis touched a delicate pinky to Harry’s arm and let slip a tiny, “Holy…”

Harry went for the paper first. As he did, Louis plucked out the ring and inspected it between his fingers. Harry glanced over at him sitting there, turning the ring about. Louis just looked up at him and shrugged, more interested in the paper Harry had.

Harry looked down at the square of paper he was holding.

There were lines drawn across it, the very edge of a picture. Carefully, he unfolded it to see what of.

It was the torn corner of the first letter. A drawing of the inside of the compass stared up at Harry. The lines of the half globe were there, the laurels and the ‘S’ too, but the drawing had extra lines and connotations. The markings of tiny mechanics inside it, the mechanics that unlocked when Louis forced his wire into its hole.

He flipped it over.

The thing was covered in scrawling text, tiny and messy. All the way to the edges. Compared to the first letter, this one looked angry. Frustrated. Mad. A scrap of utter mess.

Harry read it.

He sat back in his seat and bit his lip. Looked at the instruments in front of him darkly.

“What is it?” Louis asked, taking the letter from Harry’s hand. He looked at it for a short moment before remembering he couldn’t actually read Italian.

Louis looked back up at Harry with his eyebrows knitted and said, “What’s it say? Harry?”

“I…” Harry started, looking up to Louis, “Let me write it out.”

Louis handed him his notebook from his bag and waited patiently as Harry scribbled out his translation.

It didn’t take long, the letter was shorter than the first one. It wasn’t written backwards either. Like it didn’t matter to keep its secrets so tightly guarded, like they didn’t have the energy to write a whole essay.

Louis put one hand on the corner of the notebook and the other on Harry’s thigh as he read the translation Harry was writing out.

 

**_Like you, my heart has become entombed. It carries your memories where my lips can not. I have wept for weeks now. Your death has caused a darkness within me, Leonardo. I am tired of these sleepless nights wondering if they shall be my last. I dream of the executioner’s hand in place of yours._ **

 

**_Go to my Heart. This instrument shall lead the way and one day, it may bring light to dark._ **

 

“So…” Louis thought aloud when Harry stopped scribbling, “None of this was written by Leonardo, then?”

Harry was quiet for a moment, his thoughts turning, before he answered, “No, looks like it was Melzi.”

“And he did all this after Da Vinci’s death.”

“Seems that way.”

“He sounds…” Louis put his hand on his hand and looked up at Harry, “Depressed.”

Harry hummed. 

He did. Francesco Melzi sounded like a depressed insomniac, kept up by his partner’s death. And the fear of execution.

“I think,” Harry said, “He’s done all this, made these clues, because he was trying to hide some of the things Leonardo had left him.”

“Do you think,” Louis asked, sitting back in his chair and looking back into the cafe, “He’s built somewhere like this, then? Somewhere for his things, for him even, to be safe.”

Harry followed Louis’ eyes to the ferns and the pictures and the smell of coffee floating from the shop. It seemed so ordinary, so unlike anything to be compared to some treasure chamber, some dark room where Melzi’s secrets lay entombed.

But, at the same time, no. Because this little coffee shop without a name hid in plain sight, and let Harry and Louis laze about in the sun. They could look down over the balcony and watch the world go by and no one knew a thing but them.

This was a place made for people like them and so was wherever these clues were leading too.

Harry bit his lip. He looked at the glint of sun darting off the edge of Louis’ lip and thought of how these two places were actually so different. How Melzi had to hide behind so many clues, so many walls and layers just to escape his fear of the executioner’s hand.

And Harry, Harry just had to go up some stairs and out of the bustle of the street.

His world wasn’t perfect, not by any means, he had the very real possibility of meeting his own untimely end, of having no family to go home to. But at least he could manage. 

It was all so relative. To Da Vinci, Harry’s life would surely seem a dream. To someone in the future, Harry’s might seem tragic. To someone across town, it might seem completely preposterous, they couldn’t even fathom that people like Harry actually existed. Maybe they thought he was a child of the devil, maybe they’d be like Liam and simply not even know.

Maybe they’d be some kid, just as young and scared as Harry had once been. A kid that would see Harry and realise they could be themselves too.

Strange, Harry thought, that so much happiness and pain could exist in the world at the same time. Always had, always will. War and love go hand in hand, because nothing creates one quite like the other. 

Louis had been so grey that morning, so lost, at the end of his tether. But Harry had brought him back. He had been the one to pick them back up and keep moving, keep fighting.

And damn if he was ever again going to be a hopeless as Melzi sounded in his letter. He wouldn’t let his love go to waste in some hole, ready for the world to forget.

“What are you thinking?” Louis asked, breaking Harry’s thoughts with an up ticked smile, “You’re staring.”

Harry kissed him.

Then he pulled back with a smile, “I love you. I won’t hide it.”

Louis bit his lip and tucked away his smile, tried to hide his mouth with his fingers.

“I’m bloody lucky I get to have you, and I’m not going to throw that away,” Harry added, pulled away Louis’ hand to kiss him again.

“I’m the lucky one,” Louis whispered when Harry finally peeled away from him, “But I love you too.”

“I love you,” Harry interjected quickly, his grin wide.

“I love y-“

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Harry beamed.

Louis rolled his eyes and kissed Harry, got him to shut up. But his lips were soft and tender and told Harry he loved him without all the playing. He didn’t even open his mouth, didn’t lick at the edge of Harry’ mouth.

He just pressed his lips to Harry’s like he was hugging him, embracing him with the softest touch of stubble.

There was a quiet between them, just as delicate as their kiss. The air was warm, swirling between them, damp in the space between their mouths.

And then Louis lent back and rested his head on his hand. He looked thoughtfully between Harry and the letter on the table and maybe something clicked because finally he said, “I hope you know how fearlessly I’m going to love you.”

Harry nodded. Because he did. He’d seen it in all the things Louis did, all the things he said. He was the most fearless creature Harry had ever met. He’d only faltered once, but he’d been so willing to try again.

Harry said the words before Louis could. He could see them on the tip of his tongue, “I’m never going to let something like last night ever happen to you again.”

Louis seemed like he was about to say something, maybe chastise Harry for getting the words out before him, maybe tease him sweetly, but he bit his tongue. Instead, he reached out a hand to take Harry’s and entwine their fingers together and finally whisper, “My brave man.”

Far braver than Harry had ever thought himself capable.

He let slip a small smile.

Harry moved his hands so both cupped Louis’ one, and then he rested his lips to Louis’ knuckle as he turned his attention back to the letter on the table. Back to figuring out what it meant. 

“Let’s break it all down,” Harry thought aloud, lips brushing across Louis’ thumb, “The letter says go to Melzi’s heart, which is ‘entombed’. The compass will lead the way. And the only two carvings on the telescope that we haven’t figured out are the skull and the lion.”

“Don’t forget the picture on the front of the compass, the Medici crest.”

Harry hummed, “The lion is a symbol for the Medici family too.”

“So we go to wherever the Medici family lived then? Or died? If we’re talking skulls and being entombed.”

“Florence,” Harry sat up straight, “The Medici lion symbolised the city of Florence too,  still does, because that’s where the Medici family held power.”

“Jesus, they must’ve been powerful.”

“You have no idea.”

Louis just kissed the side of Harry’s head and squeezed his hands with his one, “I guess we’re going to Florence, then.”

 


	28. The Balcony.

Sunday 

July 7th, 1935.

Cannes, France.

  
  


Selene sat down first. She took the seat that faced out towards the street. So she could see the white mark of Harry’s shirt glow from the balcony.

Her father sat in front of her, a dark shadow under their umbrella. The light behind him caught on the edges of his smile. Gluttonous, proud. She was beginning to notice the marks of ego in his face.

He relaxed back in his seat and strummed a finger over the menu laying on the table.

When a waitress came for their order, he asked for eggs. Sunny side up. He winked as he talked.

Selene ordered nothing.

She watched as Harry’s back shifted in and out of sight.

Her father was too busy being proud that he’d spotted Harry and Louis duck into the doorway across the street. His smile had been slick as he’d quickly grabbed a seat for them.

He’d pulled out Selene’s chair for her, made a show that he was a courteous gentleman, asked for his food in perfect French. No accent. No way of giving away that he was an Englishman. The waitress had bought it.

Selene didn’t.

Because he was so preoccupied with playing his part in public, to disappear into the background, that he was quite happy to sit with his back to where Harry and Louis were sitting. Way up there on that balcony. 

Selene paid no attention to whatever her father was saying. Something about the weather, or France this time of year, or the disturbing turn Germany had been taking. Or something. She tuned him out and kept her eyes on the swash of white fabric across Harry’s back.

She could see a patch of his hair. He’d lean back every once and a while and she’d catch a glance of the hairs at his neck, dark in the shade of their umbrella. He turned back to look over the edge of their balcony a few times, glancing down to the street below. Each time, Selene shifted slightly so she was just out of sight. She’d wait a few seconds and then check if Harry was still looking. He never was.

Her father ate his eggs.

Selene kept watching.

Harry’s hair came back into view.

Then more hair. Different hair.

Louis’.

His face was clearly doing something right up against Harry’s. Whispering in his ear perhaps. No, their faces were pointed the wrong way. They were… kissing.

Selene swallowed.

She kept watching. There was something strange in the pit of her stomach. Repulsion. Disgust. Curiosity. Or envy. Which of them, she couldn’t tell.

“What is it?” Her father eventually asked, as though he knew already. Or thought he did. He just looked condescending.

“Nothing,” Selene said, blinking slowly at him. She wasn’t going to tell him what she’d seen. Not of now, not of the night before. She liked having something she knew and he didn’t.

If her father was going to be adamant that they follow them quietly, she was going to do just that. She’d be silent on all accounts. And screw her father for not paying more attention.

When she looked back up, the back of Louis’ shirt was visible. He’d moved around to sit next to Harry. Their sides were pressed up together.

Selene watched on. Their bodies moved in tandem, shifting when the other did. Perfectly in sync. So unlike her and Louis.

Selene blinked.

 

Her father hadn’t yet finished his plate when Harry finally stood and went out of view, back inside the building across the street. There wasn’t a sign to tell her where’d they’d visited.

“Let’s go,” Selene stated, matter of fact,  “They’re coming.”

Her father rolled his eyes and gave her a bemused look. 

“There’s no rush, love,” He drawled, “They won’t see us here.”

Selene said nothing. She just pushed out her seat and darted inside. Her father didn’t have to think about the colour of his hair standing out like a freshly lit flame. And of course he hadn’t considered her.

Too busy thinking about himself. And his appetite.

Priorities.

Selene grinded her teeth as she smacked some francs on the counter top for their lunch and then loomed in the corner of the window. 

Harry and Louis walked - tumbled - out of the front door. They were smiling, laughing. Walking far too close.

Selene wondered how no one saw it, the sickening hearts in their eyes.  The ruffle in Harry’s hair. No one saw more than friends.

They stopped at the curb and looked both ways. Louis’ hand was touching Harry’s elbow.

And then they ambled across the road. Right their way.

Her father was sitting with his head turned down, focused on his breakfast. Entirely unaware.

Selene wanted to laugh at him, wanted to chide him for such an amateur mistake. He’d let his guard down.

She couldn’t though. Him being seen by them would make them run. They couldn’t follow them quietly. And Selene wouldn’t get her inheritance.

Selene bit the nail on her thumb, pulling at it until it split at the corner and tore in one long piece. She caught her reflection in the glass, so close, so warped. Her eyes looked so wide. Her skin so white.

She blinked and focused back out on the street.

Harry and Louis were walking right in her direction, right up to where her father was sitting. They were still talking in each other’s ear, gently laughing about something. Louis was looking up at Harry’s face and Harry was looking at where their feet were going.

Her father was still sitting right there.

And Selene was still in the window, right in front of them.

They were too close. Her face was too visible in the sun streaming inside.

Selene pulled back. As soon as Louis turned his head from Harry to step up onto their curb, she ducked back at the edge of the window. Into the crevice of darkness at the very corner of the cafe. There were curtains bunched up here. They were thick and velvety and smelled of must and old coffee.

Selene pulled at the torn layers of nail left on the edge of her thumbs, she pulled at the jagged edges with her middle finger and calmed her beating heart with the uncomfortable tearing of nail on delicate finger pad.

Then she counted to thirty and finally looked back out the window.

Harry and Louis were gone.

And her father was still there.

He was looking in the window, directly at her, as he leaned far back into his chair like a cocky celebrity. Relaxed and confident and all too pleased with himself. His arm was hooked over the back of his chair too.

When he caught Selene’s eyes, he smiled. And then he winked. And then he pulled that arm back to his front and lifted it to his lips. He made a shushing sign. His mouth was curved into a smirk.

Selene whipped around like maybe Harry and Louis had walked into her cafe and she was about to be trapped in front of her father’s amused eye. But they weren’t there. 

So she went outside, slow and sceptical and trying to make sure her father didn’t see the caution in her steps.

“Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Her father said, smiling innocently up at her.

“How did they not see you? How did you see them coming?”

“Ah,” Her father said, and then he pointed at the window Selene had just been hiding behind.

She turned and looked at it.

Her reflection stared back at her. And all of the street behind her.


	29. The Entombed Heart.

Monday 

July 8th, 1935.

Florence, Italy.

 

The train to Florence took sixteen hours. The train was slow, chugging its way along the French coast and into Italian territory.

They decided to take the night train instead of flying so they didn’t have to try and navigate Florence in the dark of night, plus it was more romantic. Or at least, that’s what Harry had said as they left the cafe. Personally, he liked the idea of spending the night in a bunk with Louis and the sounds of steam and metal cogs to send them to sleep. Flying was so new age, so modern, and he liked how nostalgic and welcoming trains were. Slow and steady like a mother’s beating heart. It reminded him of the trips he took as a kid with his family, and he wanted to take them with Louis now instead.

Louis didn’t take much convincing. In fact, Harry barely finished his sentence before Louis just smiled and said, “Of course, my love.”

So they took the train and Louis tucked himself into Harry’s side as they read on the top bunk. Their room was small, dressed only with two bunks and a small sink in the corner. It was all they needed. After dinner in the dining car, they’d gone straight back to it and Louis had jumped up to the top bunk. He watched as Harry untucked his his shirt from his trousers and undid a few of his buttons, then he’d stuck out his hands and motioned for Harry to come up with a daring look and a bitten lip.

At eleven, when the sun had burnt out and their kisses had fizzled out to comfortable silence, Harry held a book he’d picked up at the station across his chest and wrapped his arm around Louis’ shoulder to stroke his fingers through his hair. Louis, tucked right up into Harry’s right side, lay watching him read.

Harry could feel Louis’ eyes on him, could sense the flutter of his eye lashes even when he couldn’t feel them. Harry would often look over to him with a soft, curious hum, and Louis would just smile and say nothing. Harry supposed he’d do the same, watch Louis read just for the sake of getting to look at him, so he’d let out a tiny smirk and gave Louis an extra affectionate stroke of his hair.

Eventually, closer to midnight, Louis shifted and got off the bed. He disappeared under to the lower bunk and then returned with his notebook. He resettled himself back into Harry’s side and attempted to write with the book above him. It was awkward looking, and awkward feeling, Louis took awhile to get comfortable. Just as focused on folding himself into Harry as he was trying to keep his arms free to write.

Harry shifted to let Louis move around, raising his arm a little so Louis could get his head tucked in comfortably. Finally, when he’d managed to settle, Harry glanced away from his book and asked him what he was writing.

“Mmm,” Louis hummed, holding his pencil to his lip, “I think I’d just like to remember all this. So much has happened and I want to remember all of it thirty years from now.”

Harry was quiet a moment, thoughtful. He liked that. Liked that Louis wanted to remember this, wanted to look back on everything that had happened with fondness. He’d like to have those memories kept somewhere too, watch them back like a movie. The moment they met, the moment they first kissed, the moments where Louis saved Harry and the moments where Harry saved Louis too.  All the times they told each other how they were somehow, extraordinarily, the same. The times they showed it too. The first time they said  _ I love you,  _ and all the times they said it without actually saying it - the affectionate touches, the  _ honey’s _ and the  _ love’s _ and the words they repeated back to each other again and again until kisses were the only thing their mouths could give. 

Harry was right. The train had been a good idea. It was warm and romantic and let them be quiet together, think about how their lives had become intertwined. Gave Louis the time to write it all down.

“I think I should like to read it when you’re down,” Harry eventually said.

“Maybe,” Louis replied, his pencil scratching along his paper, “That might be terribly embarrassing.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

Louis was quiet a moment, his hand pausing, then he softly asked, “You wouldn’t?”

Without pause, Harry answered, “No. I love it when you’re honest.”

Louis’ pencil went back to his lip. Then his hand came up to give Harry’s bicep a gentle squeeze. Then he went back to writing.

Harry stroked his hair and read his book. He made it half the way down his page before Louis spoke again, “Do you think I could write a book?”

“A book?” Harry repeated, pulling his eyes away from the words in his novel.

“Yeah,” Louis said, resting his pencil on the bed next to him and holding his notebook open on top of his chest, “Suppose I wrote a whole book about this…”

“About Da Vinci?”

“About  _ us _ .”

Harry put down his own book, the fingers he had in Louis’ hair slowed, “Absolutely.”

“You think people would read it?”

“I would.”

“I know you would,” Harry could hear the smile in Louis’ voice, but it grew serious again as he continued, “But would other people? Do you think I could get it published?”

Louis looked up at Harry with round eyes, trepidatious, unsure.

“I think,” Harry said confidently, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from you, it’s that if there’s a will, there’s a way. There are absolutely people out there that would want,  _ need _ , books about people like us.”

Louis gave him a small smile and lifted his hand to meet the one Harry had in his hair. Harry felt the warm touch of Louis’ fingers delicately stroke the skin on the back of his hand, so he pulled it away from his head to slot their fingers together. The back of Louis’ hand against the palm of Harry’s, like for once Harry was playing the big spoon.

“I love you, Harry,” Louis said, staring right up at him.

“I love you too,” Harry said back, using his thumb to gently push the ring Louis had on around his finger.

Wait.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, turning his head to look at Louis’ hand.

“Hm?” Louis hummed, shifting to look where Harry’s eyes had gone, “Oh, that.”

Louis let go of Harry’s fingers and brought his hand down to show him. There, on Louis’ index finger was a small silver band. It had marks on it, too small to see in the lamp light.

“It’s the ring from the compass,” Louis explained, “I forgot I had it.”

Harry remembered a flash of ring as Louis had taken it out of the compass. Somehow he’d gotten so caught up with the letter and then  _ Louis _ that he’d completely forgotten about it though.

Louis turned his hand so light glinted off the metal. Finally, Harry could see that there were in fact tiny stars covering it, and lines in between. A smattering of constellations. The ring itself was slightly too big for Louis. Even on his index finger, the widest of the lot, it spun easily. Came off easily when he pulled it too.

“It has an engraving on the inside,” Louis said, moving the ring so he could see the inner edge, “Uh, ill nostro amoray ee infinito?”

“ _ Il nostro amore è infinito, _ ” Harry understood what Louis was trying to say immediately, “Our love is infinite.”

“Huh,” Louis said, looking down at the ring like Harry’s translation had slid a few blocks into place, “Do you think that’s why he got rid of it? You know, get rid of the thing that reminded him of Leonardo? I think…”

Louis suddenly popped the ring back on and picked up his notebook again to flip to where he’d stuffed the paper with Harry’s translation from the first letter. He quickly read over the words and then made another little sound, another cog fallen into place, “The first letter said  _ where you gave me a ring of stars _ , I bet the bastard wasn’t just talking about where to find those shooting star marks in the church. I reckon he was so torn up about Leonardo dying that he wanted to shove everything about him away and forget about it. Including this ring.”

That didn’t really make sense to Harry. He couldn’t fathom wanting to erase everything about a lover. A partner, one for life like it had been for Da Vinci and Melzi. That was surely something you couldn’t forget. If Louis was any comparison, why would you want to? Surely they’d make such an impact on your life, who you were, the very fibers of your being, that there would be no chance of it.

But Melzi had gone on to marry a woman, Angiola, and have eight children.

Maybe he had erased him.

“But if he had tried to forget, why make all these clues?” Harry asked.

“Well, I mean, the way I see it is, he probably wanted to get rid of everything but not actually  _ get rid of it _ .”

“What does that mean?”

Louis was quiet for a long while.

He put his notebook to his side and then turning to rest his hands and chin on Harry’s chest. 

Then he took a breath and kept his eyes down as he spoke, “When… When Mum died, it hurt so much. Actually physically hurt. It was like my heart and my lungs and my skin were constantly, uh, on fire. I couldn’t eat or sleep or leave the house because it hurt so much. There were days where I didn’t want to wake up because waking up meant having a few seconds where I’d forget and I’d feel okay, and then slowly I’d remember and all the pain came back worse than before. And I think… I think I get why he’d want to hide it all away. It hurts less when you can forget for a little bit. So I completely understand him pushing everything out of sight, but, you know, you don’t actually want to throw the memory of that person out. You just want it out of your mind until you can think about them again.”

Louis’ eyes had gone red, glassy, when he eventually finished and looked up. Instinctively, Harry shifted so they were laying side by side, face to face. He hugged Louis, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “Sorry, love.”

He could feel Louis’ cheek move, the edge of a tiny half smile. Harry held the two of them together into a tight, comforting hug - Louis’ head tucked into Harry’s neck. 

Harry didn’t say anything more, didn’t offer up any advice. It felt more pertinent to just give Louis the reassuring weight of his arms around him.

They lay in silence for a few moments, the steady chug of wheels turning in time with Louis’ breathing. He wasn’t bawling. This wasn’t fresh pain. Rather, he hung onto Harry with loose arms and long slow breaths and all the tells that he had grown accustomed to the pain of losing his mother. It had settled into his bones, and the reminder of her death had become a strange, uncomfortable fact of life. 

Finally, Louis shifted and he lifted his head to look up at Harry again. The edge of his nose was wet where a tear had slid past. Harry wiped it away and Louis chuffed out a breath of air followed by a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” He whispered.

“No,” Harry said, kissing his forehead again, “Don’t be.”

“I know,” Louis confessed, “I know.”

“Good,” Harry said. He gave Louis his best warm smile before continuing, “I actually just had a thought.”

“Mm?”

Harry sat up and took Louis’ hand. Louis, still lying on his side, simply watched Harry as he took his hand and slid the ring off his finger.

“I was thinking,” Harry said as he took the ring, “Melzi tried to move on by forgetting, and he threw away this ring because it reminded him of Da Vinci. But you found this ring,  _ you _ did, because you kept fighting. You kept pushing on, and not trying to forget, after your mother passed. And I might have been there, but it was you who figured the clue out in Milan, it was you who knew Hugo had the compass, and it was you who opened it.”

Harry bent his arms up to the back of his neck and unhooked the thin gold chain around his neck, “I think it’s a nice reminder that when it gets tough, when it hurts, you don’t give up, you don’t lock things up and throw away the key. You carry on. Because you did carry on. And I think your mum would be so proud of you right now.”

Harry slid the ring onto the chain, “You should wear it like this so you won’t lose it.” 

He leant over to Louis and hooked the chain around his neck, “And you should wear it to remember how strong you are and how beautiful you and how smart you are and how much I love you because you always carry on.”

Louis pressed his hand to the ring as his fell across his chest. He had a fresh tear in his eye. It slid over the bridge of his nose and dripped onto the blanket. His cheeks were so flushed and beautiful and this was the kind of red that Harry liked.

He liked the red of roses and lips and his heart when it fluttered in his chest.

“I love you,” Louis croaked.

Harry bent down and wiped away his second tear and then kissed him.

  
  


By the time they hopped off at the station in Florence, it was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. The train had left them feeling suitably cramped and ready to have a proper stretch of the legs, so they decided to walk.

They were headed to the Medici chapel, a mausoleum for the Medici family situated at the Basilica of San Lorenzo - a massive church in the heart of Florence. Two men were buried there, Lorenzo de’ Medici and Giuliano de’ Medici. Both had ruled the Republic of Florence during Da Vinci and Melzi’s time, and it was happenstance that the mausoleum was being built at the time of Da Vinci’s death.

Harry supposed, as they walked the few minutes from the station to the chapel, that Melzi must have had something built into the chapel to accommodate the articles he was trying to forget. 

But having something built there would have taken years, surely enough time for Melzi to settle into his grief. Harry couldn’t picture how he would have still wanted to forget so much. Sure, the telescope had been intricately made and teeming with clues, but the compass had not. Instead of ciphers and switches, it had only a tiny keyhole and the letter inside was written on a scrap of paper torn from the first. It had felt so rushed. So lacking of effort to keep unwanted people out. Perhaps something had happened, Harry thought, but he wasn’t sure. He could only be sure that it seemed off and surely he’d find out when they got to the chapel.

They didn’t even get that far.

Harry was walking in time with Louis, explaining the thoughts he’d been having aloud and, with what had become habit, he’d taken Louis’ lighter from him to flick between his fingers. They were only two minutes from the chapel.

Harry snapped the lighter open and shut and open and shut until the metal felt hot in his grip. It was only by chance that he looked down at the exact moment the sun caught the corner of it and shot a star of light right into his eye. The glimmer caught his attention and made him suddenly aware of the way his fingers had been spinning the metal block the whole time since they’d left the station. So he pocketed it to focus on the conversation at hand, the reasons why Melzi’s second letter seemed rushed and haphazard.

But at the exact moment he moved the lighter towards his pocket, and the sun left its spot on its corner, the cobblestones below took its place. And Harry couldn’t refocus on what was being said, what Louis had been commenting on about his thoughts. He couldn’t focus on anything but the cobblestone he was about to step on. Because it had a shape carved out of it. A shape that to anyone else, would have seemed like a scuff or an age old piece of graffiti, but to Harry, looked distinctly like a shooting star.

Harry stopped. And stared at it. And then dropped to his knees to look a little closer. He couldn’t even help but reach out a hand to the grimy stone and feel how the tiny carving was really, truly there.

Louis’ shadow appeared over him, the shape of his head right over it.

“What are-” Louis started before he saw it too. Then he dropped to a squat next to Harry and said, “Is that…?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “I think so.”

“Isn’t it facing the wrong direction?” Louis asked.

Harry looked up, towards the church in the distance. It was a broad, bulking building, a barreling steeple stood staunchly against the sky. Completely unmissable.

And the shooting star was pointing in the completely opposite direction.

Harry turned his mouth in thought, glancing between the church and the carving and the street in the other direction, “Maybe not the  _ wrong _ direction.”

Because maybe they’d completely bypassed whatever was in the chapel purely by luck.

“Should we follow it?” Louis asked. His voice was bouncing, husky and excited. When Harry looked up at him, he was grinning ear to ear.

Harry nodded, “What have we got to lose?”

They took anticipating, searching steps until they saw the next carving, at the corner of the street and turning left, and Harry was so thankful for how little Florence had changed in the hundreds of years since Da Vinci and Melzi and the Medici had walked these very streets. They continued around the corner and down the next street a few minutes before there was another, and then another and another. And soon they’d been walking for half an hour.

Where the streets around the church had been slim winding mazes in the middle of the city, the building facades teetering above them like books on a shelf, the streets as they walked further and further out of the city opened up wider and wider and started to move up towards the edge of the hills. Trees started to dot the sidewalk and they could actually feel a breeze sweeping down from the hills the surrounded the city. Eventually, they found themselves upon a shooting star that didn’t continue down the street. This one pointed right, to the side of the pavement, towards a gate. Beyond, a cemetery. 

Harry immediately thought about the skull, and the entombed heart, and he actually shook both fists in excitement.

“Holy shit, Haz,” Louis hopped in excitement, tapping the small of Harry’s back, “Holy shit!”

The gate was open so they looked up and down the street and walked in.

 

The graveyard was an overgrown mess of half-kempt greenery and mossy headstones and vaults that overlooked the city. Graves were situated wherever they could fit, each awkwardly placed next to the other so that they all formed a sort of child sized city of stone.

Harry and Louis walked around the entirety of the graveyard searching for another shooting star. They walked together, watching the ground underfoot as it alternated between cracked stone and tawny grass, as they went further and further into the belly of the graveyard. The headstones and vaults turned into small mausoleums, and soon they couldn’t see over the top to where they had been and where they hadn’t.

The graveyard had started to feel like a maze. There was a severe lack of distinguishable paths, and with the taller structures in various states of disrepair, Harry almost couldn’t tell if they were walking in circles or not. It was only the oil lamps that hung from tall black poles that told him that they were, in fact, not, because they had started to look older and more broken and greyed the further they went. Clearly less people made it this far into the cemetery. Vines had started to shoot up their poles and hang like ballerina fingers. Like Louis’ fingers.

Some of the mausoleums had taken a tumble in the years since they’d been built, their edges had fallen down to reveal too-dark innards. They passed one with two cracked columns soldiering either side of its door. It was round and half grown over with vines.

It could have been a dark place to walk through, the sight of the earth taking back the graves it housed, but the sun was shining down on them and there was a green glow about the stone where the sun had been cast through leaves. Graveyards should be like this, Harry thought, green and idyllic and almost hopeful. Like the vines and trees and grass were a gift from those whose time came before Harry’s.

They’d made their way almost entirely to the end of graveyard, Harry could see glimpses of the far side fence and the hills beyond, and yet he still hadn’t seen another shooting star. There were only three rows of mausoleums left to check, but he remained hopeful.

On the second to last row of graves, Harry checked every stoney structure as carefully as he could, in case there were stars on them instead. Or if he’d find something else. There were five in this row. The first one they passed was round, like an astronomical observatory, and in front of it were two small lions. It peaked Harry’s interest at first, but there was a name chiselled into the stone above the door.  _ Bianchi _ .

The next one was a square thing, half fallen down. The stone had darkened with water damage and looked like it was dripping with charcoal. This one had a barely visible  _ Ricci _ across it.

The third gave Harry pause.

It was square shaped and fairly plain. Every side was smooth, the roof flat, and time had only made its mark in the moss filled cracks that covered it. There was no name on this mausoleum. On the metal door, covered in a layer of teal patina, was a carving of anatomical heart, and around it were eleven stars on hexagonal plaques, each the size of a hand, in a perfect circle. There should have been thirteen, but two of them had come off. Where the two missing ones should have been, there were two hexagonal holes. One shallow, barely an inch thick. The other was perhaps two or three.

Harry looked at it. A twig crunched as Louis halted to a stop and turned to look up at it too.

“An entombed heart,” Harry said, almost a whisper.

Louis tucked his finger around Harry’s and gave it a squeeze. When Harry looked over at him, his mouth was half open in a wide, hopeful smile.

Harry thanked his lucky stars and then chuckled under his breath, because really, these were some bloody lucky stars he’d found.

They walked up to the door of the structure and looked for anything to help them. Around the two holes were letters. Around the shallow one were the words,  _ Nord _ and  _ Est _ and _ Sud _ and  _ Ovest _ . North, East, South, West. Around the deeper hole were six letters that didn’t have any overt meaning, AMWNHA, but Harry understood them right away. They were the letters used to unlock the telescope.

Louis didn’t even stop for a heart beat either, he chuckled and opened his satchel. Out came the telescope - he gave that to Harry, and then the compass.

“These look the perfect shape,” Louis commented as he confidently pressed the compass into the shallow hole. It fit perfectly.

He turned the compass to the right, so that a tiny notch on the door spun towards the S. Towards South. The door clicked.

Harry looked at the telescope and gave it ceremonious bounce in his hand. He felt like he was holding a moment in his hands that would change his life forever, and only he and Louis knew about it. There was so much power, so much anticipation, being held in that telescope. Whatever was on the other side of this door, Harry was about to find out.

“Take your time,” Louis teased as he waited for Harry to put the telescope in the hole.

Harry took a breath and put the telescope to the hole. 

It didn’t fit.

This hole was skinnier than the other one, that Harry could already tell. And the telescope was skinnier than the compass. But even the slimmer eye-piece side of the telescope didn’t quite fit. The lip of the eyepiece was ever so slightly too wide.

Harry was feeling up to a challenge, he was ready for the tricks and clues that he was surely about to encounter. Surely so if the telescope and the compass and the riddles were anything to go by. 

So it was an easy fix.

He turned the tiny knobs on the end of the telescope so the letters in the cipher rearranged and the telescope opened into two pieces. Now Harry could use the end of the eyepiece that didn’t have a lip to it - the side that had attached to the main body.

Then he slotted it into the hole.

Thankfully, it fit. As Harry slotted it in, he could feel the metal scraping the edges of the telescope and couldn’t help but grimace, hope that he wasn’t wrecking the thing for no reason. But then he felt the pull of magnets and the eyepiece was all the way in.

The next bit was just as easy. Harry turned the eyepiece like a combination lock. He turned the notch around the letters in the same order that opened the telescope.

Something in the door clicked.

And then it started to open.

But the door opened only a centimetre and before it stuck. There was a strange whirring noise from the otherside of the door like something was jammed for a few seconds and then all went quiet.

Harry could hear the wind in the trees. And his breath. It was coming out in small, excited bursts.

“It worked,” He breathed out, smile growing.

He pressed up against the door, it must have gotten stuck in the centuries since it was built because it was difficult to move, the hinges squealed and Harry gritted his teeth as he pushed it open. Eventually he got the whole thing open and light crept into the mausoleum in a single, bright square. They pulled the compass and the telescope out of their slots in the door and stepped in side.

While the outside of the mausoleum was square and made of cracked stone, the inside was hexagonal and covered in old, stained massive slabs of metal. The same as the door. Each panel was sculpted with a picture - like human sized playing cards.

Harry stood just inside the doorway and took them all in. To his left, two men were laying under a constellation of stars, the older one pointing up to the sky. In another, the younger one was being taught how to build some sort of instrument - with the older one’s hands over his. To anyone else, they would have seen a father and son taking on life together. A father teaching and a son learning, pictures of them painting together, writing together, walking together. To Harry, he knew what he was really looking at. It was Melzi and Da Vinci. It was a room dedicated to the time they spent together, and the death that came to that time when Da Vinci passed away and Melzi couldn’t face it.

The room was damp, and warmed from the summer air outside. And it made it more bearable to look at the decades that had etched themselves into the cracks between metal panels, along the stone floor. Moss had grown into those gaps and taken home in this long forgotten room.

In the middle of the room was the square of light that glowed around the silhouette of Harry and Louis’ bodies in the doorway. 

And in the middle of that their shadows stood a podium, or a sundial. 

Or a sink.

It was again metal and again hexagonal shaped and came out of the floor about a metre. At the top of it was a shallow, flat basin, and above that a strange tap. Instead of the usual handles one would turn to let water out, this one had a wheel attached to its side with a tiny handle to turn the whole thing like a cog.

As they walked up to it, Harry could see an inscription written around the lip of the basin. He read out it loud in English, “Only those who walk the same path as us may see the night sky I lay under with you.”

“Huh,” Louis hummed thoughtfully, “What do you suppose it’s for?”

Louis fiddled with the tap mindlessly like it would do something, like turning the wheel next to it would open something. The thing just spun around loosely. Like it wasn’t attached yet.

“Not sure yet,” Harry said, watching as Louis continued to turn the wheel.

He turned his attention back to the basin. In the middle was a circular hole that dropped down into darkness. Around it were six laurels. Like the compass.

Of course.

“Do you have the glass dome thing?” Harry asked. They hadn’t been able to put the compass back together so Louis had kept all its parts carefully packed into his satchel.

He pulled out the chunk of glass and gave it to Harry. Carefully, Harry slid it into place. 

It fit perfectly.

Harry looked at it and wondered what next.

He felt Louis’ arms come around his waist, and his lips against the side of his neck. Louis kissed his spot and Harry could feel the pull of skin around Louis’ smile before he pulled away. Before he pulled Harry with him. Out of the square of sun behind him.

The sun poured into the room and right at the sink, and hit it just so so that the half globe glowed brightly. 

Two beams of light suddenly streamed out of the base of the sink. One pointed at the wall on the left, and one at the wall on the right. There must have been mirrors down the drain hole that directed the bright light refracting through the half globe out towards the walls.

“Amazing,” Louis stated, half too pleased with himself and half actually impressed that it had worked. Harry could hear the tiniest touch of earnestness at the end.

Harry just gave him a smile, proud and knowing.

They walked to the wall that the light had pointed to in one sharp, tiny circle. It was the picture of Melzi and Da Vinci under the stars. And the light was right over a star carved into the wall. As Harry got closer, he could see that the star was actually cut out, its edge was distinctly separated from the read of the wall and that definitely meant that he was probably looking at a button.

He pressed it.

Nothing happened.

But there was the other one too, the light on the other side of the room. So surely there was another button on that side and maybe they would work if they were pressed together.

Louis knew what he was thinking before Harry even got the words out. His eyebrows went up when the idea hit him too and he quickly hopped over to the other side of the room.

“Got it,” Louis called over when his hands had made their way half way up the wall, and stopped where a shadowy panel showed Da Vinci’s hand with a paint brush. He was painting Melzi’s portrait.

Harry nodded and they pushed their buttons together.

Harry could hear the same whirring sound he’d heard when the first door opened. His heart jumped and a smile swiped itself across his face.

Louis was smiling too. They were looking at each other from opposite sides of the room, hands on the wall, smiles on their faces, and the electricity buzzing between them.

The wall to Harry’s left, halfway around the room between the two of them, one of the panels started to shift. Like the front door, it shifted open an inch. But unlike the other door, when it started to squeak and strain and something had aged too poorly in the mechanics, this slab of metal didn’t just give in and stop. There was a dull, heavy clunking sound, like something was beating the other side of the wall, and the wall pushed itself to open.

When it couldn’t open, the hinges that it hung to grinded and squealed and then it all happened in slow motion.

First Harry heard the metal in the top hinge pop, and a bolt shot out towards him. He even had time to see it fly across the room and hit the ground with a gentle tinkle. It seemed to echo with each delicate bounce across the floor. When he finally pulled his eyes away from it, cold air blew across his forehead and then the entire, heavy, massive, panel of metal was falling down.

All Harry could do was press himself against the wall behind him and hope it didn’t come close.

It didn’t. Instead, the slab of metal fell right into the middle of the room. Right where the sink was.

It hit it with a massive clang. A crash that burst Harry’s ears. Like a gunshot. Dust that covered the floor flew up in a grey cloud. When it settled, the slab of metal had crushed the sink, it had almost completely flattened it.

Harry looked up at Louis. He had the same wide eyed look on his face.

“Do you think that was meant to happen?” Louis asked.

“Um,” Harry replied, looking at the bolt that sat so innocently on the ground next to him as he stepped over to Louis and the slab on the ground between them, “No.”

“Huh,” Louis said, his voice was almost flat. Quite probably out of pure bewilderment, “I guess this place wasn’t quite built to last.”

“Maybe an earthquake dislodged something,” Harry wondered aloud, hands on his hips as he looked down at the remnants of the sink peeking out from the edges of the metal panel.

“An earthquake?”

“I mean, Italy has had its fair share of earthquakes. There was a big one about 15 years ago that killed 30,000 people. And another just a few years before that that killed more than 100,000 people when it caused a tsunami. Earthquakes are in Italy’s blood. No doubt there’s been damage here since the place was built.”

Louis took in Harry’s words thoughtfully, “That’s fair. What do you suppose is down there?”

He pointed to the hole in the wall that the panel had left behind. There was another wall behind it, the stone wall of the outside of the mausoleum, and just in front of that were crass stone stairs that went down.

Harry stepped over to the hole and tried to look down the stairs.

It was completely black. Cold air emanated out of it.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Harry eventually said.

The hole down into the depths of the ground was so incredibly, scarily, dark. And if earthquakes or age had already done damage to the two doors they’d made it through, who knows what trouble they’d find themselves in down there.

He needed a light. He had Louis’ lighter still in his pocket, but that alone would be too small to guide them safely. He had a jumper stuffed in the satchel across his side, and could light that but there was nothing to hold it with. He needed something else.

“An oil lantern,” Harry said suddenly, forgetting that Louis wasn’t privy to the thoughts running through his mind, “I saw some outside. They might not work, but it’s worth a try, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis smiled, and then he was off, bounding back through the door outside. When he came back, he had an lantern in each hand. They were rusted almost completely through, and when Harry took one from him the edge of it crumbled in his hands.

He carefully held it by its handle and reached into his pocket for the lighter.

By some miracle, the wick took. Harry’s face lit up at the same moment the lantern did, and soon the pair of them had both lamps going and they were peering down at the hole again.

This time, with warm flickering light shimmering down it, they could see a little further down. The three steps they’d seen before had become five, but beyond that, darkness still loomed.

“So… No time like the present, then,” Harry supposed.

Louis could clearly hear the tremor in his voice because he ran a hand across Harry’s back, and then took the first step down.

A tingle went down Harry’s spine.

Then the second step.

And then Harry flung out his hand to Louis’ shoulder. He grabbed him quickly, but softly.

When Louis turned back to him, Harry just turned his lips and then quietly said, “Wait for me.”

Louis nodded and gave Harry his hand. When he took it, Louis squeezed and patiently waited for Harry to take a deep breath and step down that first stair.

The stairs went down and down in a spiral, along a stone clad wall, like they were making their way to the bottom of a well.

Harry walked behind Louis, his left hand still clasped securely around Louis’ left hand. The two of them clung their right sides to the wall so their lanterns bumped over jagged edges in the stone. Because to their left was pitch black, and there was no bannister to protect them from falling.

Harry tried to shine his lantern out towards the centre of the spiraling stairs, but nothing came into view. Sure, there was a dull, barely there shadow on the stairs on the other side, but the black around them seemed to swallow the stairs across the way whole and it almost made Harry wobble. 

So he kept his eyes cast downwards to where he could see Louis’ feet moving in front of him.

Steadily, they went further and further down into the depth of the earth. Somewhere, Harry could hear the occasional drip of water. A dollop of water falling into water. It came from below them.

The air grew colder and colder and colder, and Harry couldn’t help but shiver. Not even the hot Italian air could muster its way to wherever it was they were going.

Louis suddenly stopped and looked at his hand planted on the wall. Where it had been holding him steady, he pulled it away and looked at his palm. Harry could see the glint of reddened water that covered his hand. It would have looked like blood if it weren’t so sheer.

On the wall behind his hand, the water had been stained a dark burgundy colour in a long, shrinking V shape. Harry followed it up the wall where the water mark grew to its widest and right up there, maybe a metre or two above them, a hole had been carved into the wall. A mangled piece of rusty metal was barely hanging from the lip of it. Something must have been torn off there.

“Look,” Harry whispered. It felt wrong to talk normally.

“Careful, Love,” Louis whispered back. 

Careful? Of a hole in the wall?

Harry looked back down to Louis, who was looking at his feet.

Where the stain had dripped down the wall, it dripped down the stairs too. The step in front of Louis were wet and sagged, as years of water damage had softened and washed layers of stone away.

Louis let go of Harry’s hand so he could face the wall and brace himself against it with both hands. Pressing himself against the wall, he carefully stepped down the slippery, water-torn steps. Harry pressed himself against the wall too and watched on as Louis’ lantern knocked against the stone wall and almost caught his head. 

There were three steps affected most by the water pooling by their feet. Once Louis was satisfied he’d made it out of way’s harm, he looked back up at Harry leaning there with a concerned knot in his brows. Louis smiled and raised a hand for Harry to take.

“You can do it,” He carefully coaxed.

Harry didn’t want to take his hands off the wall so Louis placed his hand on his hip, under his satchel, and guided him down. Harry could only hold his breath and try to push out the pulsing vision of him tumbling over into nothingness from his mind. The stairs suddenly seemed a lot skinnier. 

But, with the hand protectively on his back, Harry made it down in one piece. He stepped across the dipping stone, where his foot wanted to slide, and down to the safety of both of Louis’ arms.

Or his one at least. Louis didn’t quite manage to take his other hand off the wall as he carefully pulled Harry close enough to see the relief flash through his smile. 

The bottom, as it turns out, was only ten more steps away. Harry could tell because suddenly their lamps were reflecting against something in the middle of the chamber now. A little further down, Harry could see the entire ground was consumed in dull grey-green water. Murky and haunting. In in the very middle of the chamber was a spiral of metal sitting haphazardly, rusted all over and broken into two bits.

This was the perfect place for bones and creatures and things out of books that shouldn’t be read at night.

And Harry always read them at night.

But he couldn’t turn back now, so he tried to focus on the fact that this was supposedly a place for Melzi to hide Da Vinci’s belongings, the things that broke his heart.

So he was either walking towards stacks of love letters, or a trap.

 

The water was ever so still when they reached the bottom. So still that when Louis stepped down onto the very last step, into the centimetre of water that barely covered it, he send ripples out across the tiny lake around them and to the metal carcass in the middle of the room.

Closer up, Harry could finally tell what it was.

“An Archimedes’ screw,” Harry said aloud without realizing, his voice too loud for the dark silence around them.

“A what?” Louis asked, stepping down into the water to have a closer look.

Harry quickly grabbed him and pulled him back, Louis didn’t know how deep the water was, didn’t know what was beneath its surface.

“Woah,” Harry exclaimed under his breath, suddenly remembering all this, “We don’t know what’s down there.”

Louis looked at Harry thoughtfully and then down at the water. He was still for a moment, clearly in thought. Harry could see his eyes moving from his feet on the stair to the massive screw in the middle of the room. 

Clearly, Louis wanted to have a closer look, because he was testing the water with his toe and leaning back to clasp onto Harry’s hand.

Harry knew he had no choice but to hold it for him and watch as Louis lowered himself carefully into the water. Harry held his breath as his whole foot went under, and then his ankle, and then the spot where Harry knew Louis has a scar from falling from a tree as a child.

And then his foot stopped.

And Louis looked up at Harry with a grin.

Louis stood upright and put his other foot in the water. It was only half a foot deep.

So Harry stepped down too. The water was thin enough to make out half of his shoe, so he could see the laces floating upwards. The bottom half his shoe was a mystery, and Harry hoped that the ground below wasn’t hiding any morbid secrets. 

Rather than stepping normally, they got to the Archimedes’ screw by pushing their feet forwards in sliding motions.

Harry explained what it was as they moved, “It’s for moving water uphill. It sits on an upwards angle and is usually attached to a handle at the top. When you spin-”

Louis tripped up and threw his hands back to Harry. The floor had stepped down a level as they got closer to the middle of the room. 

Harry managed to catch Louis, their lanterns clanging together too loudly. The handle on Harry’s lantern broke away from the lamp on one side so it hung lopsided.

“Sorry,” Louis let out as he took a breath and stood back up, his hand still tight on Harry’s forearm.

“S’all good,” Harry said.

Louis carefully made his way down the step in the middle of the room to look at the screw laying half-submerged in the water. Harry took the chance to explain it properly as Louis carefully touched the crumbling edge of metal that corkscrewed around it. The whole thing was probably about three metres long if it had been put back together properly.

“It must’ve fallen down at some point, no doubt that’s where all this water’s come from, and that hole in the wall,” Harry supposed quietly, taking a step down to stay close to Louis’ side. It still didn’t quite feel right to talk normally, “I’m guessing it came out of the wall to send water up to that tap that didn’t work.”

“The one I was spinning?”

“Mm,” Harry hummed, “When you turn that wheel at the top, it would have turned the screw in circles so water would get pumped up. I wonder when it fell...”

Louis shrugged his shoulders and turned back to Harry, satisfied with what he’d seen.

“Let’s see what else is around here,” Louis said.

Louis let Harry step back up to the ground level and then stepped up too, and pointed his lantern around to see if there was anything else around them.

Harry tried to look too, but his lamp was a little harder to control. It swung loosely from the one handle hinge still hanging on and couldn’t stay still on anything he shone it towards.

They turned their lights towards the walls around them, turning in opposite directions, until Harry’s lamp fell on a cavity on the wall.

An archway.

He tucked a finger around Louis’ pinky so he’d turn around and see it too.

“Nice,” Louis said when he saw Harry’s lamp light swinging over the hole in the wall. 

The archway was roundish but uneven, the edges jagged like it had been chiselled out of the wall. Like it had been clawed away.

Harry kept his wicked, wandering thoughts at bay and sloshed his way towards the hole.

The hole turned into a passageway that turned right and went on until it turned left. The roof above him was short, only an inch from his head, though there were no spiders here. Which was strange, Harry thought.

They made their way down the hallway together, their legs wet and cold, and their hands intertwined. Neither was particularly fussed about letting go.

When they reached the end of the passage, and turned that final left corner, what they’d been waiting for finally came into view.

Harry stopped in his tracks, right on the very edge of the corner, because he couldn’t help but suck in a short breath of air and let his eyes go wide.

“What is it?” Louis asked from behind him, still tucked around the corner. He pushed Harry forwards a little so he could just see over his shoulder.

Louis went silent, and then he let out the tiniest, “Oh.”

Because there, right in front of them, was another archway. This one crumbling so that stones stood in a messy pile sticking out of the water at the base of it. And beyond that, a wall of metal bars with a gate.

And beyond that, wooden shelves covered in stacks of paper.

Harry stepped forward and took off his satchel, his eyes focused on the things behind the metal bars, and absentmindedly balanced it and his lantern on the pile of stones at his feet. Then he stepped towards the gate and tried to get a closer look between the bars. He could see now that the inner chamber went on for a few metres, four or five, and that the shelves covered every inch of wall. The space itself was rather skinny, wide enough for only one person to stand, like a galley kitchen, but there was more than enough paper in there to keep one busy for days, weeks.

Harry shook the gate, tried to open it. It didn’t budge.

He looked down and saw the latch. And the lock that kept it shut.

“Louis,” Harry called back to Louis, but he was already at his side and made him jump when Louis just hummed in his ear.

“Can you pick it?” Harry asked, quietly this time, shaking the lock again.

Louis took the lock in his hand and looked at it closely, his own lantern shining brightly right up against it, “I think so.”

Thank God. 

Harry squeezed Louis’ shoulder gratefully and then stood back to let him work away. He stood with his thumb nail between his teeth, anticipation eating away at the copper-tasting muck beneath his nail.

Harry scrunched his nose and pulled his hand away, god knows what he’d touched. 

Louis suddenly made a delightful sound, a happy woosh of air that almost sounded like a ‘yay’. He stood up and showed Harry the lock in his hand, completely free from the door.

Even though Louis had grime across his cheek, a faint grey smudge that Harry already knew would taste the same as the dust beneath his nails, he still kissed him. Once on the cheek, and then another on his temple.

“Brilliant,” Harry quietly added, letting his smile graze Louis’ hairline. 

 

They hooked the lock over one of the metal bars that ran horizontally across the gate, and then together they pulled the gate open.

It moved surprisingly easily. Harry almost tumbled back, but Louis’ arm was there to quickly keep him steady. As always.

Louis winked up at him and then that was it, they were in.

 

Shuffling through all the papers Melzi had left down there felt like touching hot coals. Harry’s hands shook. Almost violently.

He could barely breathe. 

The grin across his face wouldn’t leave.

And neither would Louis’.

Because there were so many papers, stacked from floor to ceiling. The ones near the ground had disintegrated over time, sodden with water and turned to mush, the sketches on them melted away. But the ones above water level were still there, still intact. 

Harry didn’t have the restrain to treat the papers delicately. Louis was already upon them in any case. There was no chance to even think about how to systematically and carefully separate each sheet.

They pulled out sheets where they could, scanning over the drawings and the paintings on each one. Soon, Harry had a clear picture of what exactly Melzi was hiding.

Spread across the whole collection were depictions of Melzi and Leonardo, romantic and graphic enough to clearly paint a picture of a longstanding relationship. The pictures signed in Leonardo’s name captured posed images of a man who’s age seemed to greatly change between each drawing. He’d be a grown man in some, and what was clearly a child in others, but there was no doubt that it was always the same man. He was gathering a timeline of Melzi’s life. Pictures of him in his father’s garden as an adolescent. Pictures of him in the harsh shadow of candle light, swathed in fabrics and his shoulders bare, and his age barely that of a teenager. Pictures of him in a bed, laid out bare and only adorning a beard.

There were pictures of Leonardo too, far older and more creased by age, and Harry couldn’t ignore the implications Melzi had written into the sketches. Leonardo was always framed with some sort of authority, idolised by an adoring fan. His poses and his expressions exuded power and intelligence and wit and something almost philosophical. Always from a lower angle, always with Leonardo’s chin slightly raised, or his eyes cast away into the distance.

Harry couldn’t ignore the observation in Leonardo’s sketches, and the adoration in Melzi’s, and it made him uncomfortable. The lines between fatherhood and romance had never been so blurred.

It was the times, of course, it was common back then for men to take a younger man under his wing. Teach him of the world, and of what it meant to be a man. Or taken by a man. But that wasn’t good enough. Harry had Louis by his side, and he’d learned so much from him, yes, but he was his equal. They filled each other’s gaps, they learned from each other, they lead as much as they followed.

Harry couldn’t fathom wanting to paint or draw Louis in a light that cast him as such a sage, a teacher. The pictures he had of them had them on the same page. Louis’ gentle guiding of Harry’s elbow from the beginning was met with Harry’s comforting quiet, his calming of Louis’ nerves. Harry’s pensive moments were met with Louis’ encouragement. In fact, they were always encouraging each other. Equal.

Melzi didn’t have that. Whether he knew it or not, Harry didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t know any better than to love in the shadow of someone else. But Harry could clearly tell that Melzi was an object of desire, and at far too young of an age. And maybe that was all Melzi knew of love at the time.

Of course, the sketches of young Melzi weren’t definitive proof that Da Vinci had bed him then. But they were proof that Da Vinci took to obsession with Melzi’s form even as a boy - Harry recognised the grooves of desire he’d drawn into Melzi’s face, the sloven swoop of his back, the almost-explicit posing.

“What are you thinking, love?” Louis suddenly said, cutting through Harry’s thoughts.

Harry was quiet for a moment, looking down at the drawing in his hands, “I… I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know if I’m okay with what I’m seeing.”

“Mm, you’re telling me,” Louis said, raising a sheet of paper so Harry could see, “Melzi could almost pass for a child here.”

And he was nude. In a bed.

And then Louis put the sheet down and looked through the rest in his hand. His hands slowed. Then he paused. His body visibly tensed.

Louis handed Harry the papers.

They were all the same. All showed a too-young Melzi, naked and alluring, in various states of being bedded.

He couldn’t have been older than fifteen.

Harry raised an arm so he could lean against the metal bars just to his right, hand looked up to Louis, “What do we do?”

Louis thought that over, his face moving to match Harry’s tone, “I don’t think we should just leave it here. But... I’m not really sure.”

Harry bit his lip.

When he spoke, kept his tone cautious, quiet, “I’m torn. I’m so aware of how easy it is for historians to rewrite history to match their morals, and I don’t want to add to that. I never want to be that. I don’t want to  _ not _ share this, warts and all, just because it destroys the idea that Da Vinci was some sort of ‘genius’ to be revered. That’s not the problem. It’s just the fact that Melzi being underage is tied up in their homosexuality. We have enough trouble already, people already look for ways to call us sick, perverted. What’s more important, the truth or the treatment of gay people? Why couldn’t Da Vinci have met Melzi just a few years later?”

Louis turned his mouth in concern.

“Yeah,” Louis admitted, nodding slowly, “But you already knew there had been whispers about their relationship. Suppose we share this stuff, what’s to say it changes anything?”

“But these pictures are so explicit, so sexual, and there’s so many. How can they ignore that?”

“In my experience, very easily. People seem to have a tendency to explain away what makes them uncomfortable.” 

Harry thought of how he’d been able to hide safely in the university for the mere fact that he let people believe whatever they wanted to, how he’d let boys leave his room in the morning and not worry too much about them realizing why they’d spent the night in the first place. He remembered the time Louis and him had spent cruising around Marseilles, careless about what people saw because they’d always be able to see something else, something innocent. But then again, these pictures were so graphic, so telling, Harry couldn’t see any other explanation except for people not wanting to tarnish their impression of a  _ brilliant genius _ , so he wasn’t sure.

“Let’s just get to that problem when-  _ if _ \- it arises,” Louis added, touching Harry’s chin.

Harry couldn’t help himself though, because the thoughts kept coming. He looked at his feet beneath the water’s surface and kept worrying, “I have to be honest. I’m scared of what this discovery would mean for… Me. Us.”

Louis moved his hand to Harry’s elbow and looked at him with a concerned raise of his eyebrows, turning his head to the side.

“I don’t mean to be selfish, but sharing this discovery and how we found it - that would put us on the map too. This is a big find and it’s just hit me that if we share it, people will want to know how we did it. They’ll want to know how and if it’s actually true. How would we tell our story without rewriting our own history, or jeopardizing our safety?”

“I understand,” Louis kept his tone careful, comforting, concerned. As warm as the light in his lantern. His soft, husky voice flickering like the flame, “But love, let’s solve problems when we actually face them. Don’t worry yourself just yet. We’ll figure it out when we get to it, okay?”

Harry nodded. Louis always brought him back to Earth, helped him park his worries.

“For now,” Louis added, knocking Harry’s hip with his knuckle, “Let’s just keep looking through everything. Let’s focus on now.”

So they did. Harry kept looking through the masses of paper. He found some panels of wood with intricate paintings across them. Some were completely done, some only had a base coat and the outlines of the sketch. All of them were of Melzi and Da Vinci. All of them were mesmerizing, some beautiful, some repulsive, all as revealing as the last.

Harry kept looking through everything until he came to a small scrap of paper that didn’t have Melzi or Da Vinci in it. The only one he’d seen. It was tiny, the size of his hand, and covered in the scars of old folds. The edges of it were frayed and bent out of shape. This scrap had either been forgotten, wedged in the spaces between other pictures, or it was truly treasured and carried around until it had begun to fall apart.

Harry smiled at what had been painted across it.

The ocean.

He pocketed it right then, and wordlessly kept looking through the stacks.

Louis, next to him, was just as studiously looking through all the works. Their shoulders rubbed together occasionally, Harry could feel the soft cotton of his shirt catch on his. The both of them had matching white button ups on, both rolled up to their elbows, both dusty and dotted with the water from their feet. 

Between the moments of their bumping shoulders, Louis would bump Harry’s hip with his. He’d do it completely unassumingly, not looking up from the pages in his hands, and of course Harry would do it back. They settled into a natural quiet. Their lanterns lit the small room up adequately, Harry’s on the stack of rocks and Louis’ sitting on the papers between them, and made it almost friendly. Toasty. The flicker of flame tinkled across the water and sent shimmering shapes up the walls.

Off in the distance, Harry could hear the faint sounds of the world outside, birds chirping somewhere, and the occasional drip of water. It didn’t take long for the sounds to melt away as Harry got lost in thought, lost in his internal debate about how Da Vinci and Melzi’s history should be handled.

Suddenly, Harry felt Louis’ hand brush against his back. He was edging himself through the small gap between Harry and the shelves behind him, and out through the metal gate.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, intrigued.

“Um,” Louis said, hovering under the archway to the passage, “I thought I heard something.”

“Oh.”

“I was just going to see what it was.”

“What did you hear?” Harry felt his blood cool, the dark walls around him closing in around him a little.

“I don’t know really,” Louis replied, smiling reassuringly to Harry as he bent over to grab the lantern sitting on the stones at his feet, “Probably a rat, to be honest-”

Suddenly lights were moving around in the passageway behind Louis. Streams of light that Harry knew were torches, flashlights. People.

Louis spun around, a quick  _ what the fuck _ coming out of his mouth.

And then he made the fatal mistake of looking around the corner.

Hands grabbed him.

They pulled him away. Around the corner.

Into the dark.

Harry didn’t even think. He ran towards Louis. Towards the bouncing light of the broken lantern he was holding.

No.

The lantern was falling. Harry could see it in slow motion. It hit the edge of the archway and the handle broke completely off. 

When Harry got to the stones under the archway, to where he could see Louis’ shoes splashing against the water, kicking, the lantern finally hit the water.

It fizzled out.

And Harry couldn’t see Louis’ shoes anymore. Just the blinding flashes of torchlight beams flying around the passageway.

All Harry could hear was splashing and the muffled sound of Louis trying to yell.

And all he could do was fling his hands out to Louis’ satchel sitting on the rocks.

He yanked out the gun.

“Hey!” Harry yelled, his voice loud but shaking as he shoved bullets into the cartridge, “Hey! Get off him!”

Harry lifted the gun and red hair flashed before him.

Selene.

She stepped out from behind Louis and the other figure.

She had a gun this time and it came to his chin. He jolted backwards. His foot caught on the stones in the water and the satchels on top of them. 

Harry fell.

His elbows hit the floor below the water awkwardly. He felt a crack on his right side, but he couldn’t hear it above the splash of water around him and the thrumming of blood through his ears. There wasn’t time to figure out if it came from his hand, his elbow or his forearm. Wasn’t time to figure out why he was numb to the pain that should have been searing.

“What the fuck- Let him go!”” Harry spat at Selene, who was standing above him with a wicked grin. Her thin, pale arm was extended to keep her gun still pointed at him. A torch in her other hand shone right in Harry’s eyes and made him squint.

“Hi,” She said sweetly as she moved further into the chamber.

The shadow in the passageway moved into the archway behind Selene.

Louis came into the light of the lantern he’d left sitting on the shelves in the inner chamber. He had a hand over his face, it was holding a white handkerchief over his mouth and nose. He was still struggling, but his body was becoming more and more tired. More drowsy. His movements were slowing, and then the person holding him talked.

“What a lovely surprise.”

Harry recognised the voice. He knew it straight away but it jammed in his mind, he couldn’t register why he’d be hearing it here. It didn’t make sense.

The person’s face came into view as he stepped further into the room.

It was… No, Harry couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be.

It was Fletcher.

_ Fletcher _ .

His supervisor.

His kooky, overly friendly, fucking supervisor.

Fletcher smiling at Hugo’s party flashed through Harry’s mind. And then the memory that he’d suddenly had to dart away to some ‘family emergency’ right when Louis turned up. 

What the  _ fuck _ .

“What the fuck,” Harry swore aloud. 

“Oh come on now Harry, that’s hardly a way to talk to a friend,” Fletcher smirked. Harry had never seen him look so tall.

“You’re hardly a-” Harry was about to spit out how little of a friend Fletcher was, how he was just a strange old man who had always put himself further into Harry’s life than called for.

But Selene talked over him, her voice confused. And earnestly so, “You know each other?”

Harry bore his eyes into Fletcher.

“Oh yes, Harry here is -  _ was _ \- my best student. Had a bright future in front of him. At least, that was before he disappeared from the university last month,” Fletcher turned to Harry, “You know, Harry. I never took you for one that could get involved in something like this, you were such a, how should I put this... Sissy.”

“Fuck off,” Harry spat, “I’m more of a man than you’ll ever be. You’re just a spineless weasel, hiding behind some little girl all this time.”

Fletcher scoffed, his mother an arrogant curve of a smile, “Hah! You hear that Selene, he thinks you’re a little girl.”

Selene didn’t say anything, she was just looking at Harry with an unreadable expression. Clearly thinking about something.

“No, I wasn’t hiding,  _ Harry _ ,” The way he’d always said Harry’s first name with such emphasis had taken another tone, it’d had become snide and leering, “I was just letting my darling daughter here have her game. I had nothing to do with this until now.”

“You fucking liar,” Harry snapped, “You were at Hugo’s. I don’t doubt you had a hand in this since the very beginning. Now let go of Louis before I shoot you.”

Harry raised his arm out the water and pointed the revolver right at Fletcher’s head. It took more effort than it should have, his arm didn’t want to move that far, that high up from his body, but he couldn’t figure out why. His fingers felt stuck to the side of the barrel, he couldn’t move them to the trigger. No matter how hard he tried.

In fact, his whole hand shook as he tried to make his fingers work. He could only conjure a dull, faraway throbbing up his arm. His body didn’t feel like his own.

“I wouldn’t do that,  _ Harry _ . You’ll only blast Louis’ head off.”

“Fuck off,” Harry said, yet again. He’d never sworn so much in his life.

But his fingers couldn’t move. 

He could feel the overwhelming terror starting to bubble up his throat, the same red that engulfed him when he tried to shoot Selene. He could almost feel Raphael’s breath on his neck. His vision started to tunnel.

Finally Selene spoke again. Her smile was switched back on.

“He won’t do it. He  _ can’t _ ,” She teased.

Harry tried to push the red out of his mind, tried to fight it so he could see Fletcher’s head. So he could get a clean shot. So he _ wouldn’t _ get Louis. And his fucking arm wasn’t working, something had broken inside of it, gone wrong. It made his fucking blood boil, he couldn’t even save his lover - his  _ partner _ \- because his fingers wouldn’t work. And he was too much of a fucking  _ sissy _ to fight back his feelings enough to see.

Harry swallowed the lump that his vision of Raphael had shoved down his throat.

He stood up.

He took his gun into his left hand.

And he stared down the barrel at Fletcher.

“You can have all the shit in here, all the sketches and the paintings and even the fucking telescope and compass. Just let. Go. Of. Louis,” He  _ tried _ to make his voice strong.

Fletcher didn’t let go of Louis. Harry couldn’t believe he was strong enough to hold him for so long.

“The compass,” Fletcher calmly countered, “I’m so curious how you figured that one out. I thought I was at a dead end when it wasn’t in Santa Maria. I’d come to just think the telescope was just some junk to hand off. Tell me, how did you know Hugo had it?”

“ _ Some junk? _ ” Selene asked suddenly, and then her head turned to the side and she looked even more confused, “I thought you didn’t know about the compass?”

Fletcher didn’t take his eyes off of Harry, “It’s not the time, Selene.”

“I thought you didn’t know about it,” She repeated, this time a little harder.

It was quiet a moment before Fletcher sighed and said, “I was just trying to protect you, okay. You had such a temper then, it was the only way to keep your head on, love.”

“Keep my head on?” Selene looked at him incredulously.

Harry didn’t have time for their back and forth, for this nonsense. Louis was right there, and Harry was burning with anger and terror. He’d been hunted by Selene, and played a fool by Fletcher. He was an animal trapped in a corner, kept only by the panic pulsing through him and Fletcher’s arm around Louis.

“Enough is enough,” Harry said, his voice couldn’t help but shake. Raphael was scratching at his throat, “Let us go.”

“Oh you’re free to go, Harry,” Fletcher grinned callously.

“Not without him.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do.”

“Mm, no. He’s caused enough trouble already, almost completely destroyed my reputation,” Fletcher looked towards Selene, “What do you think, Selene. Do you want to shoot him, or should I drown him?”

Selene was silent. Her expression blank. Her eyes focused nowhere.

“Looks like we’re up for a drowning then,” Fletcher smiled brightly and he started to shift. Started to bend over to bring Louis back down to the pads of his feet.

To his knees.

To his face.

And that’s when it happened. 

The red, the blood, the fear that had trailed after Harry and made its home at the corners of his vision lit up. 

His veins went gold, and then pure silver. 

Then his skin went white hot. 

His vision went sparkly and it felt like Raphael was standing next to him, no, standing  _ within _ him. Louis’ mother too. And they all had their hands around Harry’s arm, holding him up and strong and steady. And it didn’t even feel like him who pulled the trigger.

The gun went off.

Harry had shot it.

He squeezed his eyes shut in the blast.

The kick back felt strange and wavy, sluggish. Anything but sharp.

He thought time had slowed down, that Raphael and Johannah had gripped the hands of Harry’s pocket watch too.

When he opened his eyes, Selene was staring at him wide eyed.

And so was Fletcher.

And then Fletcher was smiling. He was grinning. He was standing back up.

No bullet had even come close to him. No angels had lead a copper casing into his head.

The gun hadn’t shot at all.

It was water clogged. Wrecked when he’d fallen in the water. 

Harry tried the gun again.

He pointed it the wall and shot.

The same thing happened. The gun didn’t go.

“Shoot him,” Fletcher said, his voice suddenly flat. No longer trying to play the charming gentlemen, the one who was always one step ahead, or the kooky father figure that let himself into Harry’s dorm.

Selene was quiet, then an almost silent sound came out of her. The tiniest little, “I didn’t think you could…”

“Shoot him,” Fletcher repeated, this time more forcefully. Like Selene was a child again.

Selene lifted her gun a little higher, Harry felt a future bullet hole right between his eyebrows, but she still didn’t shoot. There was something going on behind her eyes, something flickering in her.

“Shoot him!” Fletcher yelled.

Harry saw her hand move suddenly. He flinched. He shut his eyes.

He waited for darkness to take him.

Her gun sounded.

 

Harry would never forget the sound that a bullet made as it went through skull.

It was so insignificant under the explosion of gunpowder ricocheting around the walls, a miniscule, cracking pop, but it was the only thing he heard.

When he opened his eyes, Selene was standing impossibly still. Her arm was swung around to face where Fletcher had been holding Louis. There was red everywhere, blood splattered all up the walls and shifting in a growing lake in the water.

Louis was slumped over in the water, his face down in it.

Harry dropped his gun and dove for him.

He pulled his limp face out of the water. His skin and his hair and his white shirt were all dyed a dark rosy pink. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes as he wiped it all off, smearing red water away from Louis’ beautiful, angelic face.

“No no no no,” Harry repeated again and again under his breath, wiping until tears replaced the pink stains across Louis’ face instead.

Louis made a sound.

A hitched cough of a breath. A splutter of water.

He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t respond to the tight grip Harry had around his back, but he made a sound.

The pool of blood behind him caught the last speck of Harry’s eyes not taken over by blinding tears.

Harry saw Fletcher’s grotesque face shattered in a bloody heap.

He jumped away and pulled Louis’ small frame with him. He didn’t dare look again as he dragged Louis towards the stack of rubble behind him, the rocks he’d earlier tripped over. 

Harry didn’t notice his right arm as he lay Louis down carefully so his head was turned to the side. 

When Harry looked up at Selene, he almost expected her to still be standing as a frozen statue, caught in the moment she’d taken her father’s life. But she wasn’t. She was walking through the gate towards the shelves of papers.

“You shot him,” Harry stated, watching her completely dumbfounded.

“He was a liar,” Selene replied, not looking up from where she was lifting up a small pile of papers, “You said it yourself.”

“And you just shot him? Your own father?”

Selene shrugged.

“Is this all it is? A room full of drawings?” She asked, moving on from Harry’s questions.

“To you maybe,” Harry said, slowly starting to stand up. He needed to figure out how to get him and Louis out of there while Selene still had a gun. If she could shoot her own father without a bother, there was no guessing she’d do the same to them, “They were more to us.”

Selene looked at him, “How?”

“They were our ticket to a different life-”

“Worth money then?”

“Uh, yeah.” 

“Enough to cover an inheritance for someone of my stature?” 

Harry stood up to the metal bars between them, and he spotted the lantern Louis had left on the papers. It was just to the right of where Selene was standing and making her way through the sketches. “Is that why you were after it?”

She’d placed her gun right next to the lantern, where she could clearly see it, but what she hadn’t noticed was the slight damp of oil that had leaked around it. The paper around the gun and the lantern was ever so slightly stained a shade darker, and any other time Harry would have flicked the back of Louis’ arm playfully and reminded him he needed to be careful with these things. This time, however, he was thankful for Louis’ impulsiveness.

A plan formed in his head immediately.

Selene was flippant, but she could have sounded almost thoughtful in her answer, “Money. Revenge. Retribution. Does it matter?”

“Does the bloodshed matter to you?” Harry asked, pushing the gate shut millimetre by millimetre with his left hand. 

“It’s not something I think about,” Selene turned and leaned her hip against the shelves, “Does it matter to you?”

“Of course it does.”

“Why is that?” She pondered aloud, turning back to the papers so she could see what else was hidden amongst them. Harry started to push against the door again as she pulled out a larger painting of Melzi sitting in a window, hard shadows marking him from the sun beyond, “Why do you feel so much?”

Harry tried to draw out his answer, so she wouldn’t be inclined to look up again, “I guess I’ve just always been that way. Most men are taught to hide their feelings but I wasn't. It was more important to my… my mother that I read books and appreciate art and actually be a part of life. I think that she couldn’t do that herself, my father is rather prickly, so she wanted more for me. I think I’m just starting to realise what a blessing it is that I struggle to shoot people, or that I care more about people than some old drawings. Yeah… Yeah, I do care more about people. My mother taught me that. She cared more about me feeling safe as a young, sensitive,  _ homosexual _ , boy.”

Harry closed the gate, but he kept talking so he could carefully pluck the lock from the bar across the gate and put it back on the latch.

“I suppose I have you to thank too, Selene. I was ready to give up after Calais. I was so used to giving up and hiding and trying to live a safe life. But without you, I wouldn’t have meet Louis, and he made everything so much better. He made me more myself, and he gave me a reason to search for all this junk that was bigger than just myself. This was his ticket out of your world, out of all this godforsaken bloodshed, but you can have it. We don’t need it anymore, we have each other.”

Harry had the lock in place, and he clicked it shut.

Selene turned up to him.

“You’d give up the money and your reputations just for a person? What did he ever do for you?”

Harry only had one chance to do this, and he only had his left hand to do it. He felt for the familiar weight of Louis’ lighter in his pocket.

“Everything.”

Selene shrugged and turned back to the papers in her hands.

Harry flicked the lighter and threw it to the lantern.

 

Orange light flew up the walls. Like the inside of a furnace.

Harry’s back glowed warm as he spun on his heel and dashed towards Louis. Without thinking, Harry wildly hoisted him over his shoulder and grabbed the torch Fletcher had dropped to the watery floor.

Harry couldn’t process anything at first. Not Selene screaming behind him, not the smoke in his eyes and lungs, not the sharp pain building through his right arm, and not the burning heat of fire on his back or the weight of Louis’ body over him. It all passed in flashes. He saw the passageway, and then the first archway, and then the stairs. He didn’t see the water-torn stairs. He didn’t think about falling.

It wasn’t until he was half way up and a square of light was beckoning to him that it all started to seep in and he started to slow.

The square of light was growing bigger with every turn of the circular stairs, but his vision was once again starting to cave in. There was a ringing starting to blare in his ears. His arm was suddenly on fire.

His legs wanted to give out.

Harry slowed to a stagger, his steps become more and more laborious. His feet struggled to take purchase on each new stair.

There was a new pain too, not one that had been wading just below the surface like all the others. 

But it wasn’t pain. It was a tinkle. Like the fingertips of a ghost pushing him on. A gentle touch of hope down his back.

It was the necklace he’d made for Louis. The ring on the end was dangling from Louis’ neck, and it was brushing along the cotton of Harry’s shirt.

Everything was vibrating, feeling more and more out of reach, and the light was getting smaller and smaller, but Harry focused on the ring against his back. It was the only thing he wanted to feel.

The words engraved into the ring were scored across his back.

_ Our love is infinite _ .

_ Our love is infinite _ .

_ Our love is infinite _ .

Harry’s love for Louis was infinite and, for him, he was going to make it to the square of sun at the top of those stairs. He was.

He was.

 

When Harry made it out of the mausoleum, he placed Louis so carefully, so delicately onto the ground. And then he collapsed, and the world turned sideways.

White light poured down on him.

  
  
  


The world had finally stopped spinning and the pain in his right arm had finally become bright and sharp. 

Harry managed to open his eyes.

The sun above him was just starting to set.

He lay there on the ground for a good while, just watching as clouds passed by and real life seemed to continue on without him. Birds were singing their evening song. His heart started to sink into that weird, hollow state it had been after Selene had broken into their hotel room.

It felt like he’d just woken up from a bad dream, nap sick and half numb-half on fire.

Just then, Louis started to shift. He groaned and tried to move onto his side. Quickly, Harry sat up, blinking away the last swish of nausea, and went to help him.

He automatically struck out his right arm first to cradle Louis’ neck, guide him to safely empty his guts, but his arm had completely stiffened now and pain stabbed him.

Harry hissed in pain and drew his arm back, catching Louis’ shifting body with his left side instead.

“What hap-” Louis started, his voice thick and lethargic sounding. He coughed and then tried again, “What happened?”

Harry didn’t know what to say, the last few minutes, or hours - he couldn’t tell - felt like they hadn’t happened. Like they’d hit their head on the way to the mausoleum and just woken up. But Harry looked over to the building, silent now, and saw that the door was still open.

It had happened. All of it.

“Uh, Selene and Fletcher, her  _ father _ ,” He couldn’t believe he was saying that, “They found us.”

Louis made a pained look like he was trying to hold back his sick.

“Just let it out,” Harry said softly, rubbing his back.

But Louis didn’t. He just lay there looking exhausted and in pain, and totally silent. So Harry kept rubbing circles into his back and told him what happened.

“Fletcher got you with chloroform, and then, uh, I shot him. Well, I tried to. The gun was water clogged so it didn’t go off but then, well, Selene did. She shot him, and then I locked her in with the papers and set it all on fire. I destroyed everything.”

Louis rolled onto his back and looked up at Harry, the expression on his face was strange. Disbelieving, bewildered, and still pained, “You destroyed everything?”

“Selene, the guns, the art, everything. I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, but it felt like the only thing I could do in that moment.”

“Oh, Harry. I’m sure-” Louis started, moving to stroke Harry’s arm. His right arm. Harry pulled back in pain and made an inhuman sound.

Louis immediately froze and gave him a concerned look, “What is it?”

“I think I’ve broken it,” Harry replied. There was bruising all up his arm now, “I tripped over trying to get them off you.”

“Oh,” Louis said quietly, “I’m sorry. How did we both get out then?”

“I carried you.”

“With a broken arm?”

“Uh, yeah. I don’t know how. It felt like something came over me. I can’t even describe it, I just kept thinking about you and suddenly it felt like I could do anything.”

Louis gave him a soft, lazy smile, “Who would have thought last month it would be you saving me.”

Harry gave a half-laugh, air out his nostrils. He didn’t say anything in response. Instead, he smiled down at Louis. Down at  _ his _ Louis, who he’d saved, who he’d carried out on a broken body, who he was lucky enough to still get to look at and smile at and kiss.

Harry leant down to kiss Louis. 

“Just because I can,” He whispered. Louis seemed to understand what he meant because he grabbed Harry’s collar and kissed him back. Slow and steady, and anything but what their time together had been.

Harry savoured it until he pulled away because a question had caught the tip of his tongue instead. He bit his lip before he asked it to Louis. Then finally, staring down at Louis’ watery blue eyes, he asked, “Why didn’t you ever mention that it was Fletcher - that he was her father?”

Louis was quiet, then he slowly moved to sit up, clutching his stomach as he did, “I didn’t know he had anything to do with it. The last I ever saw of him was months ago.”

“But he was at Hugo-” Louis hadn’t seen him. Harry had passed by him when he was alone, and there was a sea of people in every direction. Harry paused himself and thought for a moment.

Louis picked up where he left off, “He was at Hugo’s?”

“Yeah… I saw him when I was leaving to get the compass. He stopped me and tried to talk. I thought at the time he was just a part of the crowd, he’s a historian afterall, but on retrospect I guess he had another motive…”

Louis was quiet, his face thoughtful. Then he sighed and turned his mouth, “I should have known he was a part of it all. It was his telescope to begin with, before he gave it to Selene. I suppose it’s worth mentioning, for honesty’s sake, that he was how I found you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I mean I remember he used to talk about you a lot. I think he wanted to take you under his wing, get you involved with the guild, because you were so smart. But he didn’t think you had the stomach for it, you were too  _ good _ . One day, I was coming to meet him in Oxford at the university and I saw you with him, far away of course, but to say I was taken would be an understatement. I wanted to approach you but you seemed so close to Fletcher so I thought there’d be no way to do it without making a very messy situation - not that I haven’t already. I mean, I didn’t know you liked men either. At first.”

“At first?”

“I… I may have seen you at one of the bars. I saw you take a boy home so then I knew for sure, but again, the Fletcher thing. So I just sort of… Kept coming back just to look at you for a bit. Gosh, you’re so pretty, Harry.”

Harry gave him a puzzled look, that turned into amusement.

“Louis William Tomlinson,” He said, “Are you telling me that you were stalking me?”

“Not stalking you! Just… Whenever I had a night to myself, I’d go out. And if you were there, it was a nice surprise.”

“And yet I never saw you?”

Louis shrugged, “I stuck to myself.”

“Until you brought the telescope to me.”

“Yes, well. I had nothing to lose at that point.”

“And then you proceeded to fall completely and irrefutably in love with me,” Harry winked.

“Well now that, that I wasn’t expecting. But you know what, Harry?”

“Mm?”

“I’d like to just point out how absolutely preposterous it is to say ‘I love you’ after three weeks.”

Harry shrugged, “But I did by then. And you said it back.”

“Yes, but I had a head start,” Louis tried to contain his grin. He didn’t.

Harry just kissed him.

And then he said, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

When they could finally stand to leave, they helped each other up and peppered each other in kisses and kisses and kisses. Because it was the first time they could kiss without fear, without a plan, without someone chasing their tails.

Selene never came up those stairs. When they walked to the mausoleum door and looked into the dark of the room, it was eerily quiet. Harry couldn’t stand it, so he pulled the door shut.

It shut with a simple click. And it felt like something had finally been put to rest. 

No one would find the ashy remains of those paintings again, nor the small Campbell family lying down there with them. And no one would find the telescope or the compass Harry had left in the satchels on the pile of rocks in the water.

The red was gone.

It was done.

The world would still have it’s Da Vinci, it’s hero, but Harry would still have his man.

When they turned and hobbled away, off to make a call to Margot to come and find them, Harry took Louis’ hand in his.

At the edge of the cemetery, Harry took Louis’ chin with his fingers and he kissed him one last time before they walked back into the streets of Florence.

Above them, as the sun was finally disappearing entirely behind the hills in the distance, the sky was painted a soft, fluffy pink.

Harry’s pink.


	30. The Third Letter. (Epilogue)

Wednesday 

November 13th, 1935.

Marseille, France.

  
  


Harry put his bags at the bottom of the stairs.

Somewhere, he could hear music drifting through the house. Judging by the stop-start of notes and soft, husky singing to match, it was probably Louis on the piano.

Harry had gotten his packing down to an art now that he had full use of his arm again, because Louis had done most of the packing for them during their short holidays whilst they’d camped out at Margot’s for the rest of the summer. And autumn. So he’d learned from the best. But still, he liked to be packed early just in case he forgot something.

Louis, of course, still liked to leave it till the very last moment, hence the lazy piano playing up in the music room.

“Harry!” Margot called from the drawing room, where she had the fire already going, “What time is Liam getting here?”

Just then, the doorbell rang and Margot had answered the question for herself.

Smiling, Harry stepped to the door and swung it open. It still felt strange to be able to do that, pull things and push things and hang off things with his right arm. He was quite weak still with it, but he’d made full use of it the night before - to Louis’ surprise. And delight.

Liam was standing in the door frame, eyes wide in astonishment. He didn’t even say anything.

“Hi, Liam,” Harry grinned, taking note of the three suitcases he had stuffed under his arms. Harry could only imagine what he himself must have looked like when Louis first picked him up from the train station.

“Uh, hi Harry,” Liam managed. His neck looked like it might snap if he were to take it off all the things Margot had on the wall.

“Just put your bags there,” Harry motioned to his one suitcase next to the stairs.

Liam put them down, and judging by the hard whack the last one made, there was definitely more than just clothes coming along for the journey.

Harry couldn’t help himself, he was so delightful with Liam’s sheer shock at Margot’s home, “Just wait till you see the rest of it.”

“The  _ rest _ of it?” Liam asked, as though there couldn’t possibly be  _ more _ to the house than just the hallway.

Harry raised his eyebrows and grinned.

Just then, Louis came springing down the stairs and swung his arm around Harry’s shoulder, giving him a soft, wet kiss on the cheek. 

“Hi Liam!” He grinned.

Liam, who’d thankfully gotten used to their affections during their trips to his shop, smiled back up to him, “Hey Lou, how was Barcelona?”

“Gorgeous, brilliant, amazing, all the words!”

He seemed to jump with every word, pulling Harry’s shoulder with every up and down, so he pinched at his waist and made Louis’ giggle.

“I’m glad,” Liam said, eyes wandering back to the spectacle of Margot’s home.

“Seems like we need to show you around,” Harry said, smiling, “And then dinner.”

 

After dinner, and after laying out all their plans for Margot, Harry and Louis retreated to their bedroom. They had an early start, leaving for port in the early hours of the next morning. And it was going to be the first early morning they’d had in a while - one without an hour of lazing in bed and playing with each other’s hair.

So Pierre showed Liam to a spare room on the third level, and Louis’ took Harry’s hand up to theirs.

“Come on,” Louis said, pushing Harry onto the bed and jumping on top of him, “Our last night before we have to act like we’re  _ straight _ again. Let’s make the most of it!”

He pushed Harry’s neck out and started suckling, playfully, aggressively, on the thin skin below Harry’s ear.

Harry chuckled, let himself get lost in it for just a moment, before he pressed an arm up to Louis’ chest and pushed his mouth out of reach.

“Wait, wait,” Harry said softly, “I have something I want to do first.”

Immediately, Louis sat up and his features softened, “Is it the letter?”

Harry nodded.

Louis gave a short nod and sat back so Harry could stand up. Before he did go, Harry gave Louis a smile and said, “I will be back, wait for me.”

Louis winked and nodded, “I’ll try my best.”

“Good,” Harry stated, giving him a short peck before standing, “Because I need to keep working the strength in my arm back up.”

“Roger that,” Louis grinned, saluting Harry as he let out a whiff of a laugh and let himself out of the room.

 

The letter.

The letter he’d wanted to write to his mother.

Louis had offered to write it for him while he still couldn’t use his arm, but it wasn’t right. It wouldn’t be in Harry’s handwriting. 

And when his cast had finally come off, suddenly it had been too long and Harry didn’t have the words. He didn’t have the fresh strength gained from carrying Louis up those stairs to press his feelings into paper.

To confess to his mother.

But now Harry was leaving, and it was the last possible moment. He felt like he’d left it too long, but it was now or never. So he took himself up to the study and forced himself to to put pen to paper.

When he was done, he carefully folded the paper up and slid it inside an envelope. He was careful not to let his tears touch the paper. They were tears of pain, and fear, but of relief too. He’d put his truth to paper in its entirety, and it was scary, yes, but Harry suddenly felt that wave of white pour through his body and everything was just  _ right _ .

Harry tucked the envelope under his arm and made his way back to their bedroom. Inside, the room was darkened and Louis was already asleep with a book laid over his chest. As he always did.

Harry put the letter on his bedside table, next to the framed painting of ocean he’d taken from the mausoleum, and tucked himself into the bed next to Louis.

He tried to carefully pluck the book from Louis’ grasp without rousing him, but he half-woke anyway and instinctually pulled Harry into him - completely crushing the book between them.

Harry just kissed his forehead and switched off the lamp.

  
  


_ Mother, _

 

_ I have thought over and over what I should write to you. The words have not come easily, nonetheless I am going to try. _

_ I should start by saying Thank You. I have been through more in the last 6 months than I have ever been through in my life, and it is in no doubt that I made it through because of you. You taught me in the warm embraces and the quiet looks that it was okay to be myself. Without you, I would have tried to be more like Father or Thomas and that would have caused more harm to me than a broken arm. _

_ My adventure these past months begun with a man that visited me at university. He came toting a telescope said to take us to some missing works of Leonardo Da Vinci - I know how much you were fascinated with him too. What ensued were months of wonderful highs and terrible lows. _

_ I’ll start with the lows. I was pickpocketed in the streets of Calais, held at knifepoint and at gunpoint. I saw a child shot in front of me, Mum. A child. To this day, I still occasionally have dreams about it - I can’t imagine the fear you must have as a mother. Even reading this. I’m sorry to tell you these things, but it’s the only way to show you quite who I’ve become. _

_ In the end, I found Da Vinci’s lost works but I had to destroy them. I did so purely to survive. There came a question to me about morality when I discovered those works, they shone a light on a Da Vinci that was different to the stories I was told as a child. He was a much darker man than I had anticipated, and his interests ran more questionable than I am able to write about. I won’t worry you with that. But finding his lost works did serve some purpose - I came to ask myself, what is more important? Being honest despite the repercussions, or keeping everyone around me comfortable for their own interest? _

_ My answer is somewhere in the middle. _

_ You taught me the power of being honest, but my adventure has taught me the extent to which I should be honest. Instead of letting you come to your own conclusions, I’m writing to be completely, and utterly honest with you Mum. _

_ I fell in love with the man that brought that telescope. I am still in love with him, and he is the reason I have not returned to university. Or home. I’m sorry for never coming home, Mum. I truly am. I could not handle trying to hide who I was from Father, and I am sorry that that has meant I didn’t see you too. _

_ I suspect you know that I’ve always been disinclined to take a wife. But I still hope that this isn’t too much of a shock to read. And I hope I have not disappointed you. _

_ If you are not okay with this revelation, please burn this letter. Please do not tell Father. And please do not contact me. I will cope. I understand. _

_ If you would like to talk, or hug - I miss your hugs so much, Mum - I am leaving for my next adventure in the morning. I’m going with my life partner and a friend to Alexandria to hunt down a lost burial chamber. You can send a letter to the address on the back and it will get to me. _

 

_ I love you. I miss you. _

_ Best regards, _

_ Harry E. Styles.  _

_ XXXXXXXXXX _

 

_ PS: _

_ If you’re reading this far, I hope it’s because you still see me as a son. If so, now is the point where I tell you that this man is called Louis. He is wonderful and smart and witty and I think you two would get on delightfully. I hope you can meet one day. X _


End file.
